


Clueless

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Poetry, Bisexual Cassandra, Cluelessness, Developing Relationship, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, In Vino Veritas, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Role Reversal, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut, Tropes, and many many more - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trev and Cassandra getting together. With tropes. And academics. Please suspend disbelief for the duration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am a sadist, I have decided to post this in chapters, rather than all at once. Sorry not sorry! It just somehow felt like something that would run as a serial to me. They'll be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.

_LETTER TO PROFESSORS THOMAS LARKIN AND ELEANOR DU BARRY:_

_Our establishment has acquired a manuscript which is of both historical and cultural interest, and is considering publishing it, but it is not clear what proportion of the work is fiction as opposed to fact. We wish to commission academics to review the material and to promote discussion between them, with a view to establishing its provenance and reliability. Please see the attached terms and confirm if they are agreeable to you._

_Kind regards,_  
_JT Kirkland, Editor  
_ _Starkhaven Specialty Publishing_

*           *           *

Leliana was as furious as Trev had ever seen her, moving almost jerkily, with a cold, controlled anger that was slightly unnerving. “My agents found nothing,” she said, each word enunciated with absolute clarity and precision. ”The outposts are empty and there is no sign of a struggle. But each one had the same message.” She spread out several pieces of parchment before Trev and the other advisors.

_We hold your Inquisition in high esteem_ , said the notes, which were all penned in careful, perfect calligraphy with no character whatsoever. _Thedas’s present troubles are great, but you have the strength to meet and conquer them. More will come. We prepare for the day and hold vigil. Do not look for your men; do not mourn them. They have given themselves of their own free will to a higher cause_.

_On behalf of powers across the sea, The Executors._

“Who are the Executors?” Trev asked, bewildered.

“No one knows,” said Josephine, frowning. “There have been rumours of a mysterious organization from beyond the Amaranthine and Boeric Oceans for many years. Years ago someone signing themselves that way sent a letter claiming responsibility for the assassination of Queen Madrigal of Antiva, but it was thought to be a hoax.”

“This could be someone using the name for effect,” said Cullen.

“Or there could really be an organization from across the seas that has agents in Thedas,” said Leliana, “which would be a problem. We have enough nations to deal with now, without adding a power from elsewhere. And they have _taken our men_.” It was clear from her tone that this was what galled her most.

“They imply that they are alive, at least,” said Josephine.

“But whether alive or dead, they are gone,” said Trev. “And what is this ‘higher cause’ they mention? Did they freely choose to serve it, or were they coerced? What could be more important than closing the Breach and standing against Corypheus? It makes no sense!”

“I don’t know,” said Leliana. She paced back and forth a few times, then turned to face them. “We _must_ know more. I will travel to the outposts, and then on toward Cumberland; it’s likely that they took ship there, and I might pick up their trail. I will go myself: this something that only a few should know of. It will be safe enough; we have agents in the area, and things are quiet in that part of Thedas.”

“You might take Cassandra, with a small party,” said Trev. “She is trustworthy, and has connections in Nevarra that give her a reason for visiting and might be helpful. The group would provide you with cover.”

Leliana nodded. “That is a good thought. I will, if she is willing to go.”

“And you can take me,” said Trev. “There is nothing of note happening here that requires my attention currently; everything is well in hand.”

They all stared at her in disbelief. “Absolutely _not_ , Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “It would be beyond foolish to have three high-ranking members of the Inquisition risking themselves together; two is bad enough.”

“It would not be safe for you to go to Cumberland, Inquisitor,” agreed Cullen. “We have reports of Venatori activity in Nevarra, and there are suggestions that they are influencing King Markus.”

“I agree,” said Leliana. “You would be too great a prize for the Venatori to resist, we would not be there in enough strength to protect you if they threw all their resources against you, and we cannot count on the protection of the king.”

“The Inquisition’s spymaster would also be a very great prize,” said Trev stubbornly, “but you have said yourself that it should be safe. It is not as if we are going to Nevarra City. And I _know_ Cumberland; I’ve spent a great deal of time there. And I’m willing to bet that the parts I know are not those that Cassandra is familiar with. That would be useful.”

“I also know Cumberland well, all parts of it, and _I_ can disappear,” said the spymaster. “Cassandra has reason to be there, and no one will know that I am in Nevarra. But you do not have the skills to make yourself invisible in the way I can.”

“Then I won’t try,” said Trev. The trip would take some weeks, and she was absolutely determined that she would go on it if Cassandra was going, though she did not want to think too much about why. “I will go as Cassandra’s bodyguard, in plain sight. No one will recognize the Inquisitor if I am so obviously someone else; no one sees common soldiers as individuals.” The advisors exchanged looks, frowning, and she set herself stubbornly to counter every argument.

It took some time and a good deal of persuasive fast-talking, but in the end Trev prevailed. It only remained to explain the situation to Cassandra.

“My bodyguard?” said the Seeker, frowning. “I do not need a bodyguard.”

“Of course you do,” said Trev. “You are a princess in line for the Nevarran throne; this makes you a political player and a threat to others.”

“I am seventy-eighth in line!” said Cassandra, rolling her eyes. “That is hardly a realistic threat.”

“All threats are realistic in Theodosian politics,” said Trev, attempting to sound like she believed it. “And we think King Markus has fallen under the influence of the Venatori; this makes you a potential danger to him, if you return to Nevarra. You need a bodyguard. And you would be expected to have one. But you will have to learn to always call me Trev, and not Inquisitor.” She smiled winningly.

Convincing Cassandra was easier, in the end, than convincing the advisors; Trev knew some of her weak points, and was not above exploiting them. And so when the small party from the Inquisition reached Cumberland under the leadership of the former Right Hand of the Divine, it was with a watchful Marcher soldier at Cassandra’s back.

Trev had actually stood as bodyguard to a lord for a time in the early years after leaving her home, so she knew what was required, and threw herself into the act with enthusiasm. More enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, Cassandra thought; the Inquisitor was enjoying herself far too much. She supposed it was because it was all so much simpler than the responsibilities of her everyday life.

She herself did not enjoy it. She had had servants before, of course, but they really were servants, and Trev was not. She hated having to remember what to call her. She did not like the enforced informality, of having to treat Trev as a servant; she was the _Inquisitor_. Cassandra had sworn to defend _her_ , not the other way around.

And she thought that Leliana, disguised as a travelling bard and observing it all, found it all far too amusing.

*           *           *

They stayed at an excellent inn for once; Cassandra, as a person of high status in Nevarra, had a large room of her own, and there was an adjoining, smaller personal attendant’s room for Trev. The soldiers accompanying them stayed in the barracks for visiting military. Leliana had taken a cheap room at a less pricey inn, and they rarely saw her. She made sure to get a message to them each day through the inn’s hostler, who was one of her agents, to let them know that she was well, but otherwise she was invisible, spending time with her spies and contacts in her quest for knowledge of the Executors and their employers. But her search was not turning anything up. _I am not having much luck finding my friends_ , she said in one message sent after a few days in the city, _and I have begun to think that they are elsewhere_.

Cassandra meanwhile visited her connections in the city with Trev in attendance and did her best to gather any information she could through her own channels, but that was little enough. Quite a few people had heard of the Executors and Those Across the Sea, but all seemed to think them a tale for children. There were no good leads and no new stories.

For her part, Trev followed Cassandra from place to place and stood watchful and erect while the Seeker did her business. Sometimes Cassandra was invited to dine, and if the house was a friendly and reasonably trustworthy one, her bodyguard might be sent to eat in the kitchens. They had a running wager as to whether the food provided to the bodyguard would be good or bad; the quality told a great deal about the house involved.

If Cassandra had not been so obviously outraged by the reversal in their roles, Trev would probably not have been so meticulous in her maintenance of her status as bodyguard. But the Seeker’s sense of propriety was so much _fun_ to challenge, and she rarely had such a good opportunity. So she stood at Cassandra’s back, made a point of advising her on issues of personal security, and once, to the Seeker’s great distress, tasted her wine before allowing her to drink. She only did it once, though; she thought the woman came far too close to becoming genuinely apoplectic in the struggle between her conviction that Trev was the one who should be protected and the need to maintain the charade.

If she was honest with herself, she must admit that she enjoyed the reversal of their roles and the excuse to publicly show care and attention toward Cassandra, who had sworn to be the Inquisitor’s protector. Of course they defended each other in battle, but this was different. This was a position that was a formal relationship, an acknowledged responsibility that she did not normally have.

It was not the relationship that she wanted, but it was something.

*           *           *

Cassandra had been invited to a ball given by a Nevarran noble, a social climber with all kinds of connections. When the invitation came she had grunted in disgust, handed it to Trev, and said, “I suppose that we must go. Lord Isadore’s balls are known for being scandalous and sometimes dangerous, but everyone attends them. This man has contacts among the underworld, and some of them may be at his party and have information.”

“It sounds like this is a place where your bodyguard should stand by you at all times,” said Trev a little gloomily. She was growing tired of formal dinners and dances; she wasn’t enthusiastic about them at the best of times, and the novelty of attending as a bodyguard had worn off. Cassandra looked sidelong at her.

“A bodyguard is a given for all who attend Lord Isadore’s balls,” she said, “though the pretence is that everyone is attended by a personal servant.” Trev cheered up; perhaps it would turn out to be an interesting evening after all.

The ball was scandalous, the Inquisitor supposed, with nobles mingling with others of very different and inappropriate rank, and sometimes slipping into small private rooms for illicit assignations of both political and personal natures, but overall it was as boring as the other parties. She attended Cassandra throughout, as did the bodyguards of others of high rank, and pretended not to listen to the conversations Cassandra held with a wide range of people, some of whom knew her and many of whom simply wanted to be seen with her because her attendance at such affairs was a rarity. She kept a careful eye on those around her, attempting not to do so too obviously. So when the sweating young man nervously approached, she watched him from the corner of her eye.

The attack itself took her by surprise: this was not Orlais, where such things were commonplace, and there were plenty of nervous, sweating young men and women in attendance. But then there was a knife, and the man was moving, coming up behind Cassandra, and fast. She did not think: she put herself between them, drawing her weapons and shouting. There was a blow against her armour as she struck, and then the man was down, groaning and clutching his shoulder, his knife on the floor beside him. Trev kicked it to one side and then glared at a noble who showed an interest in picking it up; he retreated. She and Cassandra were surrounded by a circle of shocked and titillated nobles who were peering from behind their own bodyguards from a safe distance, and Lord Isadore’s men were roughly pushing through the crowd, their weapons drawn.

Cassandra had not carried her usual blade; she bore only an ornamental sword, one that could kill but was relatively fragile and would do far less damage than one made for actual use. She looked no less dangerous with it, though; her face was murderous. She had drawn it and put it at the throat of the fallen assassin. “Who is this man?” she demanded.

Several people answered. He had come with Lord Selryn; no, it was Lady Cosette. No, it was someone else. He had been seen with several people who had come with a known underworld lord. He had—

“I want him questioned,” said Cassandra to a tall noble, Count Arvo, who had approached closer than most, as if he had a right to do so. The Count was someone she knew, a friend; the Seeker had told Trev that he had been a contact and ally during her time as Right Hand of the Divine, and he held some political authority in the city of Cumberland. “I want to know who sent him, and why. I want him _alive_ when I come to interrogate him.”

“I will see to it,” said the Count, and signalled to his bodyguards—unlike the other nobles, he had two. One left, and a few minutes later returned with a small squad of soldiers. He might not bring them into a ballroom, but evidently he had come to the ball with significant backup, which was interestingly indicative of his views of it.

And then Cassandra looked at Trev, and stiffened. “You are hurt,” she said.

“I am?” said Trev, and looked down.

She was. There was blood on the cloth below her armour, and now she could feel the pain across her ribs. The knife must have slipped between the plates of her cuirass. “I don’t think it’s serious,” she said.

“I want to see it.” Cassandra sheathed her sword, finally, and skewered Lord Isadore with a glance. “Get bandages.” She bodily hauled Trev to the nearest doorway, a small room set aside for conversations or more intimate encounters, pushed her in, and slammed the door. And then her hands were on Trev’s buckles, loosening the cuirass and pulling it aside, and then the leathers and her shirt.

It was a shallow cut across the ribs, as Trev had expected; it was bleeding freely and had begun to hurt quite a lot, but it was nothing serious. But Cassandra actually hissed with fury when she saw it. “I have a potion,” she said. “You must—”

“No,” said Trev impatiently, “don’t be silly. This is not worth a potion; it just needs stitching and some bandages.”

There was a knock at the door; it was Lord Isadore, with a frightened servant carrying a basin of water and medical supplies beside him. “I can send for my healer—”

“No,” said Cassandra brusquely. “I will deal with this. Call for my carriage. We will be leaving as soon as this is bandaged.” And then she drove the Lord, who was abjectly trying to apologize, from the room. “Fool!” she muttered, and applied herself to looking after Trev.

The medical supplies included a needle and catgut for stitching, and after cleaning it she set about closing the wound with a grim scowl. Trev sat quietly, suppressing the occasional wince. It was not uncommon for them to do this for each other—with healing potions as rare and expensive as they were, they were not often used for minor injuries, and every fighter knew how to stitch wounds—but it was not common for Cassandra to do it in absolute, simmering silence, and it made her uneasy. Eventually the Seeker finished, spread salve over the wound, tied a quick bandage around Trev’s ribs, and helped her back into her armour.

It was embarrassing walking out under the eyes of all, but Trev took her place at Cassandra’s back and kept her face impassive. There was a carriage waiting for them. Cassandra opened the door, obviously expecting Trev to get in, but the Inquisitor shook her head and flicked her eyes at the bench beside the driver. A bodyguard rode outside, where they could watch, not inside, even if they had been wounded. Cassandra looked even more furious, if it was possible, but said nothing and climbed into the carriage. Trev gave directions to the driver.

She was very glad when they reached the inn. The jolting had been unpleasant, and she was feeling slightly light-headed.

The carriage and driver had been lent by one of Cassandra’s acquaintances, and after they arrived back at the inn she sent them away. The Seeker spoke to the hostler briefly on the way in, ordered hot water and towels from the innkeeper, then followed Trev up the stairs and into her tiny room. She gave the Inquisitor no time to do anything herself, but immediately unbuckled Trev’s armour and lifted it off, then efficiently stripped her of her leathers and shirt and unbandaged the wound. By then there had been a knock on the outer door; the chambermaid brought the things she had ordered. She finished washing the blood off Trev’s side—the bleeding had stopped—checked the stitches, reapplied salve, found bandages in their own supplies, and bound up her ribs again, this time much more carefully.

She had not said a word to Trev since they had left the ball. Now she sat back and looked at the Inquisitor. “Do not _ever_ ,” she said in a low voice, “do something so foolish again.”

“As long as I’m your bodyguard, I can’t promise that,” said Trev lightly.

Cassandra’s nostrils flared. “You are _not_ my bodyguard.”

“I was today,” said Trev. “And a good thing, too. You had your back to the assassin, and no armour.”

“You must not take such risks!”

“I am not going to stand about and watch someone kill you,” said Trev, who was tired and in pain and beginning to get angry herself, “risky or not!”

By the time Leliana arrived they were not exactly shouting at each other—they had managed to remember to keep their voices down to vehement whispers—but they were standing toe to toe and looked close to violence.

“You are _selfish_!” Cassandra was saying.

“Maybe I am,” Trev hissed back, not giving an inch. “Maybe I value my friends and try to keep them alive!”

“You _cannot_ put us above your safety! You are the Inquisitor!”

“I am also a person! I have a name—hello, my name is Trev, perhaps we have been introduced?—and people I care about! That is not about to change, and I don’t want it to!”

“You—”

“Stop it, both of you,” said Leliana sharply. “Arguing like this will not change either of your minds. Cassandra, you need to find out who this man was, and what his goals were; as soon as you do, we must return to Skyhold. I cannot find any hint of those we were looking for; the trail is cold, if it ever led here. There is no point in continuing—either my search or your argument.”

They subsided, and Cassandra, still fuming, went to find Count Arvo. Trev opened her mouth to demand to go along in her place as bodyguard, but the spymaster quelled her with a look before she got started.

“You will not find anyone more loyal than Cassandra,” she said to Trev severely when the Seeker was gone, “but do not push her. She has limits.”

“So do I,” muttered Trev, who felt irritatingly like a child being chastised.

“She also has a point,” the spymaster said. “You should not risk yourself foolishly. This whole pretence was a bad idea.”

Trev bit back her first impulsive reply, and was silent for a time. Then she said, “Perhaps it was. But it was... an escape, for a little while, from my duties. And despite Cassandra’s insistence that nothing else matters, sometimes I need an escape.” She paused and then said, slowly and carefully, “And if I ever see Cassandra in danger, whether in a foolishly contrived situation like this or one that is unavoidable, I will try to help, whether she likes it or not, regardless of my _duty_. That is _not_ negotiable.”

Leliana regarded her thoughtfully for a little while. “Duty is important to Cassandra,” she said finally, “but it is not the only thing that motivates her. You should try to remember that.” And then she began to discuss the steps she had taken to try to gather information on the mysterious Executors and those they worked for.

The assassin, it turned out, was a Venatori agent who had decided independently that a visit to Nevarra from Cassandra Pentaghast was an opportunity to strike a blow against the Inquisition and make a name for himself. He had not thought the whole thing through very well, and he did not have the experience to deal with a good interrogator: and once he had gotten confused and given himself away about some things he gave up and told them everything. He provided the names of three contacts, and Leliana sent word via ravens to her agents to have them picked up and questioned. He had been turned over to the city guard and would stand trial for attempted murder. The verdict was not in question: Cassandra provided a signed deposition, her bodyguard also provided a statement and signed with her mark, and there were plenty of witnesses to the attack, including Count Arvo himself. There was no reason to stay in Cumberland after that had been settled, as Cassandra’s presence was not required for the trial.

For the first few days the wound was sore and itchy and pulled painfully if Trev twisted the wrong way. It made dressing and putting on armour difficult. After seeing her try, the first morning as they prepared to leave Cumberland, Cassandra made an impatient sound and said, “Let me.” And for a week she helped Trev dress and undress, and checked the wound every evening, applied fresh salve, and then carefully rebandaged it.

Leliana watched, but did not comment or offer to help. Trev supposed she was watching to see if Cassandra would erupt again; if so, she was not to be satisfied. Cassandra was obviously still deeply upset about the attempted assassination and Trev’s wounding, and rode for the most part in scowling silence, but she did not rebuke Trev again.

Trev still thought she had been right to protect Cassandra when she was attacked, but she had gradually come round to agreeing with Leliana’s suggestion that playing bodyguard to her was perhaps not the best idea she had ever had, and eventually she said so to the Seeker. But Cassandra only grunted in response. Trev, who hated the tension that lay between them, dropped back to ride with Leliana, silent and depressed. The spymaster eyed her, but said nothing.

For all her anger, Cassandra’s touch when helping her was surprisingly gentle. It was as if her mouth and manner said, “You _fool!_ ” and her hands said, “I care.” Trev knew better than to read anything into it; Cassandra had long since made it plain that she did not have any interest in women in general or in Trev in particular. But they had come to be friends as well as comrades, and the gentleness and caring in her touch was comforting. She might be angry, but at least she was angry with a friend, not an enemy.

Her touch was also thoroughly disturbing. Sometimes while Cassandra changed the bandages Trev shut her eyes, afraid that they would show too much. She tried as best she could not to imagine how Cassandra’s hands, hard and roughened from use, might feel in a more affectionate encounter, offering kindness and comfort that went beyond friendship. She tried not to imagine how Cassandra’s hands would feel in hers if she traced out their shape, an exploration in search of the soft and tender places, an enquiry of the heart. She tried not to imagine how Cassandra’s hands would feel on her in passion, driven by need. It was not easy to allow Cassandra’s touch, it stirred things up far too painfully, but after a week when the wound had healed enough not to be a problem, and the stitches had been pulled and she could dress herself, she missed it.

But things were as they were, and there was nothing she could do about it.

As they came closer to Skyhold Cassandra’s bad temper finally began to subside, and eventually, on the second-last day of travel, she sought Trev out. “I cannot be happy that you took a wound protecting me,” she said bluntly, “but you may well have saved my life. I owe you thanks.”

“You owe me nothing, Cassandra,” said Trev.

The Seeker stared at her. “I still think you behaved foolishly.”

“I know,” said Trev, with the faintest hint of a smile. Cassandra was, in all things, so very much herself. “But there are some things you can’t change, some things even I can’t change. And you made the first mistake: you chose a foolish Inquisitor.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and cuffed her gently, and Trev laughed. After that things went back to normal, with one minor exception. If one good thing came of it all, the Inquisitor thought, it was that she had finally trained Cassandra to call her Trev, and it stuck, at least when they were alone.

*           *           *

Cassandra wasn’t sure why she had been so angry at the Inquisitor. There was reason to be angry, certainly; Trev had been foolish in putting her body between Cassandra and the blow. She could have died. She had been foolish in suggesting that she stand as the Seeker’s bodyguard in the first place; it was a position that invited danger.

But they had been just as foolish to allow it. She was consequently angry at Leliana, and at Josephine and Cullen, and at herself. But it was the Inquisitor who drew her anger most, to a level that was irrational, and she was not quite sure why.

Trev had made her uncomfortable, playing at being her bodyguard. Perhaps that was it. It was wrong. It was wrong because it made a lie of their respective positions and duties. It threw everything into confusion, into shades of grey instead of clear black and white, and she did not like grey areas.

But that was not Trev’s fault. Or perhaps it was, partly; she had seemed to enjoy the role reversal far too much. She did not take such things _seriously_. There had been a distinct twinkle in her eye a few times when she knew the pretense chafed Cassandra, and that had irked her even more.

But the issue was with Cassandra’s anger, not Trev’s twinkling. She should not have felt the rage at the Inquisitor that made her want to pick her up and shake her. It was not reasonable. She did not hate the Inquisitor; she _liked_ her. Even more than Leliana, Trev made her feel like a person, not a title, more so than anyone had in years. Cassandra did not come to affection easily; it required a degree of trust that was not easy to win. But she had actually come to be fond of the Inquisitor, despite her unfortunate inclination to attend to situations with a lack of seriousness, and she was not fond of many people.

_She took her position and duty very seriously indeed when the assassin attacked_ , said a stray thought. _It is quite likely that she saved your life_.

Trev had responded to the assassin as if she was not play-acting: but if Cassandra had not also somehow begun thinking of her as a bodyguard, the assassin would not have caught her quite so much by surprise. They had both fallen into the trap of thinking the false relationship was real.

Her anger subsided gradually as they travelled together and their public interactions returned to normal. She did not want to be angry with Trev, and said as much to Leliana, who had observed the tension between them with interest but for once held her tongue insofar as offering an opinion on the issue that divided them.

“I can see that,” said Leliana, “though I’m not certain the Inquisitor does.” And that was all she had to say on the matter.

Cassandra had finally gone to the Inquisitor and thanked her for saving her life. Trev, predictably, had dismissed it and made a joke. But this time the Seeker found she was not angered; it was what Trev did, and had not done for some days, and to hear her joke again was a kind of comfort.

But even after their reconciliation, even after thinking about it for days, a process of introspection Cassandra hated, she was still uncomfortable about the whole thing, and not quite sure why.

*           *           *

_FROM LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND, EDITOR, SSP:_

_This unpublished manuscript purports to be about the legendary Inquisitor who led the forces of Thedas against Corypheus. The histories give us little information about the Inquisitor’s private life, despite her prominence, and certainly do not range into details such as those included in this tale._

_While it seems most likely, then, that the work can be categorized as fiction, we also know that the Inquisitor’s companions included the writer Varric Tethras. Tethras was known best for his mysteries, but also produced at least one romantic work and two, his best-known, that fall into what was at the time known as “friend-fiction,” the_ Tale of the Champion _and_ All This Shit is Weird _. Both describe the events surrounding his circle of friends, which included important players in the political events of the day. While the details of those narratives are almost certainly exaggerated, and some may be completely fabricated, it is believed by scholars that they contain a core of truth that can provide valuable insights into the personal lives of those involved and what happened behind the scenes during that tumultuous period of history._

_I submit that this document is almost certainly also the work of Varric Tethras. The existence of_ Swords and Shields _provides precedence for the the writing of a romance, and the other two works share a number of characteristics with it in both style and subject matter, taking known historical characters as protagonists and focusing on personal relationships to an even greater degree than those that are political and social._

_This narrative is characterized by the unusual number of common genre tropes utilized by the author, the details of which will be discussed further on in this commentary. The diversity is significant and makes the work stand out from others of its kind. It is clear that the author utilizes these themes as metaphors for the unfolding of a relationship. But in addition, the exploration of that relationship underpins our understanding of the character and motivations of the Inquisitor, and as such would provide important data to scholars of the period._

_—Professor Eleanor du Barry, University of Orlais_

_\-----_

_Professor du Barry’s analysis of this work is entirely off the mark. This is clearly an exploitative work written by a rank amateur, using the character of the Inquisitor to attract attention to an otherwise unremarkable narrative, and as such should be seen as entirely unreliable from an historical point of view. As for the idea of it being written by Tethras, there is nothing to suggest this beyond the fact that he was known to be involved with the Inquisition and du Barry’s inclination to believe it because he is the focus of her scholarly expertise._

_The work completely lacks coherence and is a grab-bag of clichés. Significant problems are evident from the premise of the very first chapter. It is absolutely unbelievable that the Inquisitor would take on the position of bodyguard to Cassandra Pentaghast. One cannot simply hand wave the point that her accompaniment of the two former Hands of the Divine would put far too many high-level members of the Inquisition at risk._

_Given the subject matter, genre, lack of logic, and overall approach, it is most probable that this piece of drivel was written by a woman and was made up out of the whole cloth. This is fiction of the lowest sort and is not worth the cost of the paper it would be printed on. It should certainly not be taken seriously, and I would strongly recommend against printing a work that would sully the reputation of your publishing house._

_—Prof. Thos. Larkin, University of Fereldan_


	2. The Kiss

After the events at Halamshiral Trev had been occupied for some time with strategic planning—there was an exhausting amount of work required to leverage the diplomatic advances that they had made at the Winter Palace—but despite her distractions she had noticed that there was something wrong with Cassandra. Most people had, she thought; the Seeker was not good at hiding her feelings when she was upset, though it was possible that she was even more conscious of the Seeker’s moods than most people. She had gingerly asked what was wrong, and received only a brusque, “Nothing,” in answer.

But something _was_ wrong. Cassandra might be taciturn and testy and impatient, but she did not generally stalk Skyhold’s battlements like a dragon with a toothache looking for something to sink the offending tooth in, and a good many more besides. Trev did not think Cassandra was angry with her—this was different from the fury of their return from Cumberland, and she knew that if she was the problem the Seeker would have answered honestly, in her forthright way—but it still worried her.

It was Leliana who finally extracted the explanation; Trev was not certain whether it was because of the trust Cassandra placed in the woman who had stood with her beside Justinia for so many years, or the deftness of her interrogation techniques, but she winkled the information out and brought it to the War Table. The problem was with the Duke de Freyen, one of the highest ranking members of the Orlesian court and a strong supporter of the Empress. The Duke had come to Skyhold as the lead member of a delegation from Celene, and was involved in important negotiations with the Inquisition’s Ambassador.

And, apparently, he wished to negotiate considerably more on the side.

“He has proposed _marriage_ ,” Cassandra had shouted, when Leliana had finally cornered her in the old library in the depths of the keep, pacing back and forth within the confines of the room with an aggressive speed that would have had her bouncing off the walls if she had not been so quick at turning. “And he will not accept my refusal. He ignores everything I say. And he will not _leave me alone_.”

The Duke had, a slightly bemused Leliana reported to the War Table, decided that a Nevarran princess who had been the Right Hand of the Divine and was now only one of many arms of the Inquisition had fallen regrettably, and would be grateful for the intercession of one who could restore her to a higher status. He had not exactly proposed marriage to Cassandra, said Leliana; he had announced to her that the marriage would happen. Such a liaison would be desirable for both of them; it would provide her with a husband of the highest level of nobility short of a prince or monarch, and he would have a wife—a trophy, though he did not say that—who was both suitably attractive and politically appropriate. He did not seem aware of Cassandra’s estrangement from her relatives, or if he knew he did not care. She was a princess, and that was what counted. Children did not matter; his first wife, now deceased, had provided a suitable number of heirs, and more would simply cloud the issue of inheritance, so she would not be required to produce offspring. But he did want a wife, for reasons both political and personal—he had been quite clear about the _personal_ interest—and had decided that his new wife would be Cassandra.

She had refused him, of course, and not troubled to be polite about it. But for the Duke, evidently, such a response was irrelevant. His self-regard could not conceive that anyone would reject his offer, and so he simply registered it as coyness. ( _Cassandra? Coy?_ thought Trev slightly hysterically, and then was distracted by trying to imagine it.)

“Duke de Freyen,” said Leliana, “has certain proclivities that involve the authority of a strong woman and verbal abuse. So Cassandra’s response has only strengthened his resolve. He thinks that she is playing along with him. He has written to her uncle.”

“He has _what_?” said Trev in disbelief.

“It is traditional to ask permission of a woman’s closest relative,” said the spymaster. “The fact that Cassandra wants nothing to do with Vestalus and would certainly not accept his right to give her hand in marriage to someone is not, to the Duke, relevant.”

“Has her uncle responded?” asked Josephine, eyes wide.

“He sent a letter saying that her hand was not his to give, but her own,” said Leliana, “but the Duke took that to indicate approval.”

“Can anyone truly be that foolish?” said Cullen in disbelief.

“He really has very few brains beneath all his pomposity and self-regard,” said the spymaster, “he is not used to being refused anything, and he is besotted. Cassandra has reached the end of her patience, I think. If we do not do something, she is likely to thrash the man, or worse. Should she do so, there could be unfortunate political repercussions for the Inquisition; the Duke has a great deal of influence in Celene’s court.

“The delegation from Empress Celene has finished its business here, and the others have left; he is the only one who has stayed, and it is because of Cassandra. We could send her away for a time, but I do not think that would solve the problem; in his current state of infatuation, he would simply wait for her to return. Which is what he did when she last went out on expedition with you, Inquisitor.”

“Sending Cassandra away is _not_ a solution,” said Trev firmly. The idea was unthinkable. “We must do something else. Let’s consider this for a day and then discuss it again.”

*           *           *

Cassandra spent most evenings in her loft, but the Duke had demonstrated that he had neither care for propriety nor or any _politesse_ , and had invaded even that space to pursue his goal of “speaking privately” and convincing her to accept him. It was unlikely that he would do so at night, which would have been appallingly improper, but Cassandra had been rattled. The Seeker, Leliana said, had begun to carry her bedroll off to sleep in random locations throughout the keep, rooms that were still in a state of disrepair but had doors that locked. It took Trev some time to find her.

Trev finally discovered her in a small room off one of the towers, one that she knew to be disused and normally open; there was a faint light coming from under the closed door. Someone _could_ have been using it for an assignation, but given the state she knew it to be in that seemed unlikely. She knocked quietly, and after a moment the door opened a crack. Cassandra had a face like a storm cloud, but it softened when she saw who it was. “Leliana told you,” she said, and opened the door properly so that Trev could enter. Stripped of anger, her face looked dreadfully tired.

“Yes,” said the Inquisitor. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this, Cassandra.”

There was rubble in the room, a bare space where it had been more or less swept aside, and Cassandra’s bedroll and a book and a flask and a few candles, and nothing else. _I could invite her to bring her bedroll to my room_ , thought Trev. _It would be more comfortable for her, and it would be secure_. And then she firmly stuffed that idea away. _No. That would suggest things that Cassandra would not be comfortable with. Nor would I, though for different reasons._

“I’m not certain if there is anything we can do to help with this,” she said, feeling unexpectedly awkward, “but if you come to the War Table tomorrow we can put our minds together to look for a solution.”

Cassandra looked down and crossed her arms. “The Inquisition should not waste valuable time on this,” she muttered. Her ears were red. “It is my problem only.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Trev tartly. “You are a valuable member of the Inquisition, and anything that harms you is of concern. Such unwanted attention from the Duke would harm anyone who was subjected to it, and that is something the Inquisition should concern itself with.” She took a breath. “And apart from that, you are my friend. I am not about to sit around and let someone I care about be treated so badly if there is something I can do about it.”

Cassandra raised her head and looked at her. Her expression was unusually unguarded. “I—thank you,” she said after a moment. “This has been—difficult. And I do not want to cause problems for the Inquisition. I will come to the War Table.”

*           *           *

Cassandra appeared at the War Table at the time appointed but had little to say, only nodding or shaking her head in response to queries from the others. She appeared supremely embarrassed and seemed to have retreated into silence as a defence.

The others threw themselves into the problem-solving process. Cullen, predictably, considered it as a campaign to be strategized and a problem possibly best attacked with a blunt instrument, and Josephine as a diplomatic challenge requiring subtlety, but neither a purely military nor diplomatic approach seemed to be an adequate solution, given the Duke’s foolishness and intransigence. For her part Trev could not help seeing it to some degree as a personal problem for herself as well as Cassandra, which interfered with her ability to apply logic. There were a lot of ideas thrown up, but those ideas all seemed flawed in one way or another, or held the potential to cause new problems; none of them seemed viable.

“Have you tried telling him that you have a lover?” said Josephine, finally. “I know that you would not like lying, but if you were to be in love with someone, surely he would understand that you would not accept anyone else’s offer, and it would be a diplomatically delicate reason for refusing him.”

Cassandra flushed. “I did,” she muttered. “He didn’t care. He said that he surely outranked anyone I might be involved with, and that I could not possibly refuse a liaison that was so advantageous. He also seemed to think that his personal qualities made him irresistible compared to all others.” Trev was certain that she could hear the Seeker’s teeth grinding.

“What did you say in reply?” said Josephine, looking simultaneously fascinated and horrified.

There was a pause. “I left,” said Cassandra. “I wanted to hit him, and I was not certain that I could prevent myself if I remained.”

Leliana had made no suggestions at first, presumably because the kind of solutions she offered would not be appropriate in such a context: an ally could hardly be assassinated, whether in reputation or reality, without repercussions. Trev assumed that this was why she wanted to bring the problem to the War Table in the first place. But eventually, when they’d ground to a halt, the spymaster spoke.

“There is one possible solution that has not been discussed,” she said to Cassandra. “If he will not be dissuaded by your claim to have a lover already, on the basis that they do not outrank him, then you must provide him with evidence of a lover who does.”

They all stared at her. “There are not many who are of higher rank than His Grace,” said Josephine at last, tentatively. She looked like she was working out diplomatic sums in her head. “And they are, in general, married, which would only support his claim of more appropriate status.”

“The Inquisitor is not married,” said Leliana calmly. “And although she is not as high of birth as he, as the leader of the Inquisition she certainly outranks him.”

“No!” said Trev reflexively. Now they had all turned to stare at her. Cassandra had turned an even deeper red and had a complicated expression on her face that she couldn’t read, but she could guess. “The Seeker is not attracted to women.”

“But His Grace the Duke de Freyen doesn’t know that,” said the spymaster. “Apart from the question of rank, if the Seeker’s tastes ran that way, he is not a woman, and cannot compete with one. With a little planning, it would be entirely possible to stage a scene that convinced him of your relationship, and I think it likely that such a thing would be the only way to discourage him.”

“Unless he was inclined to threesomes,” murmured Josephine, drawing a scandalized look from both Trev and Cassandra. Cullen looked studiously at his feet.

“I think,” said Leliana judiciously, “that all that would be necessary would be a kiss. It would have to be convincing, of course, not perfunctory. It would have to appear heartfelt and... passionate.”

“No,” said Trev, feeling a sense of panic. The last thing she wanted to do was kiss Cassandra and have to pretend that she was pretending to have feelings for her. That was far too complicated for her sense of logic to cope with, not to mention her emotions. She made an attempt to bring her voice down into its normal register. “It is impossible.”

Cassandra frowned.

Cullen, who had said nothing up till that point but was blushing almost as much as Cassandra, said, “Surely such a thing would be awkward, to say the least.”

“It would not have to be,” said Leliana reasonably. “It is a bit of make-believe, a favour done between friends who trust each other, that is all.”

Cassandra looked at Trev. Trev looked at Cassandra, who was still frowning. Both of them were doubtless thinking of that previous encounter early in their tenure at Skyhold, when Cassandra had confronted Trev about her flirting, the Inquisitor had made her interest plain, and Cassandra had refused her. Trev had been very careful, after that, not to overstep the bounds Cassandra had set, and to hide the fact that her desire for the Seeker had not dissipated, but she was not at all certain that Cassandra would be prepared to trust that she had entirely changed in her feelings. Cassandra could be very suspicious of—

“I would not object,” said Cassandra. “I do trust you, Inquisitor.”

And there she was, backed neatly into a corner by Leliana’s guile and Cassandra’s innocence.

She would kill Corypheus, and then she would kill Leliana.

*           *           *

Cassandra did not like Leliana’s proposal, not at all. But it seemed the only solution that might work, at least without resorting to violence, and the Duke’s arrogance and sense of entitlement had pushed her to the point of seriously considering anything. She was not entirely convinced that violence would not be the best option—it was so often effective, after all—but Josephine had asked her to consider the needs of the Inquisition, and she had reluctantly agreed that she would not emasculate the fellow, or even toss him in a horse trough.

At least it was Trev that she must kiss. She trusted Trev, absolutely; she was not worried that the Inquisitor would take advantage of the situation and do anything improper. Trev was both completely honourable and her friend. She knew that they would both be only performing for the benefit of the Duke. It was awkward, certainly, but it need not be unpleasant or distressing.

The Inquisitor, who unlike the Seeker did prefer the company of women, had flirted with her in the past, but when it had been made it clear that nothing could come of it she had accepted the refusal and since then had not shown her the slightest undesirable attention. Cassandra was not worried that she was still attracted; it was obvious from her reaction to rejection that the interest had been fleeting and casual and only meant as an offer of simple physical release. The Seeker had not minded the flirting in itself, which she saw as like that of the Iron Bull: meant mostly as a game, though one that would be happily taken up if the proposal was accepted. She had objected to it primarily because within the Inquisition Trev was superior in rank, and so even the suggestion of a liaison was inappropriate.

It was not even the idea of kissing Trev that bothered her, but the dishonesty of it all; such a deception went against her grain. She told herself that the essence of what the embrace would communicate was true: the Duke had no chance with her whatsover. But the falsity of the kiss itself still bothered her. Damn Leliana and her schemes. This is what came of lying about already having a lover in the first place; she should never have done it. She would be glad when this was over.

*           *           *

The performance would have to be conducted in public, of course, but in a situation that was private enough to be believable. It was decided that a particular corner of the battlements that provided a discreet nook would be just the place. The sentries did not stand in sight of it, and it was patrolled to a set schedule. There was a stair close by, and anyone mounting the stairs would see the nook, but the staircase itself was not conveniently located and was therefore not often used.

Theoretically, no one needed to know about the plan beyond the Councillors, Trev, and Cassandra herself. Josephine would lead the Duke to the battlements on some logical pretext—she was very good at thinking of such things—and they would surprise the Seeker and Inquisitor enjoying a private moment. It was all very simple.

But in practice such things are never straightforward. Trev, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine had come to the nook to discuss the details of the charade; Cullen had begged off, citing a need to discuss training with Knight-Captain Rylen, an excuse Trev thought particularly thin. Leliana pointed out the place where they could stand.

“When you are kissing—” she began to say.

“Who’s kissing, then?” said an interested voice, and everyone jumped. Sera was standing on the stairs at exactly the point that provided the best view of the nook. “Quizzy and Josie? Quizzy and Cass? Cass and Josie?” They all looked at her in horror.

“It... was a theoretical discussion about the privacy of this spot,” said Trev weakly, knowing how unconvincing she sounded.

“Oh yeah, right,” said Sera scornfully. “Pull the other one. Someone’s gonna get kissed here, right? You might as well tell me who. And why. I’ll find out anyway.”

They looked at each other. It was true; Sera on the scent of something was almost impossible to dislodge. It was best to have her as an ally.

“It’s for Cassandra,” said Trev finally. “Duke de Freyen has proposed to her and won’t accept her refusal. We’re trying to convince him to leave her alone. We—” She hesitated.

“Cass is going to make kissy-kissy faces?” said Sera, leaping to the right conclusion with frightening speed and an even more terrifying level of delight. “With a woman? To make that poncy git shit his pants? Hey, I’ll volunteer!”

Cassandra scowled ferociously. “That will not be necessary. The Inquisitor has agreed to—to kiss me. I trust _her_.”

Sera grinned at her, unrepentant. “Well, if you don’t want a _proper_ kiss... though I bet she’d be right good with the tongue if you change your mind. And with—”

“Sera!” said Trev, mortified. Leliana had an oddly stifled expression on her face, and Josephine had turned her back to them all, but her shoulders twitched.

By evening all of the Inquisitor’s Companions seemed to know what was going on. On the positive side, the knowledge did not seem to have gone farther.

On the negative side, they all wanted to help.

Cassandra, when faced with the array of offers during that evening’s game of Wicked Grace—some of which were genuine, some joking, and some disturbingly creative, with varying degrees of overlap—finally made a disgusted noise and put down her cards and fled, forfeiting her coins to a delighted Varric. Trev was not so lucky. Dorian had his fingers knotted firmly in the back of her jacket and when she attempted to rise, yanked her down again.

“My dear Inquisitor,” he purred, “you _need_ our help. For example, you will require a lookout.”

“I’m up for that!” said Sera, drunkenly raising a glass and standing up. “Give me a show then, won’t it!”

“This is supposed to be _private_ ,” Trev hissed at them. “It is _not_ a show for everyone.” She was genuinely furious. She did not care for herself, but Cassandra deserved better than to be gawked at by others, even her friends. She found herself shaking with rage.

“We are not doing this to amuse ourselves,” said Josephine then, a disapproving tone in her voice, “we are doing it because nothing else has worked.”

Bull put a hand on top of Sera’s head and pushed her down into her seat. “Sorry, Boss. Easy to forget that what’s fun for us isn’t fun for you or the Seeker.”

“Well, it should be,” grumbled Sera. Then at Bull’s look, “All right, all right. I’ll shut up. But you’ll still need a lookout, and I’m the best.”

“We will be grateful for your help,” said Josephine diplomatically.

“And to be serious,” said Dorian, “you will probably need people to keep others from going where they shouldn’t when this is all in progress. We can set that up with Josephine or Leliana. And it would be worth having the Duke overhear a couple of us gossiping about you afterwards, so that it sounds as if others already knew of the relationship; it would make the whole thing more convincing. Perhaps Varric can comment on the possibilities of your liaison as subject matter for another book.” Then, at Trev’s glare, “Or perhaps not.” He had let go her jacket but left his hand where it was, and was rubbing her back very slightly. “Whatever is done, we can arrange that discreetly and do it without embarrassing either of you.” His ministrations were annoying. Did he think she was an animal, all teeth and claws and irrationality, that needed gentling out of her bad temper?

But then he brought the hand round and took hers under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was an apology of sorts, and she recognized it and began to relax a little. “Just don’t do anything that could make it worse,” she said grudgingly. She didn’t know if it was her rage—she was usually not easily provoked—or Josephine’s evident disapproval of their behaviour—Josephine was almost as frightening as Leliana, in her own way—but they had all settled down now, and were making conciliatory noises.

They did want to help, because they cared. She hoped Cassandra understood that.

*           *           *

What Cassandra understood was that the whole thing was endlessly frustrating and distressing and enough to drive a person to drink, or possibly something worse. The original problem was intolerable; the idea of dissembling in order to end it made her thoroughly uncomfortable; and now their companions regarded the whole thing as amusing, which was both embarrassing and infuriating. Really, the only bright spot in the whole thing was Trev herself, who was kind and concerned and did not make her feel like a fool. She wanted it all over and done with so that things could go back to normal.

And so when she woke the morning after the plan had been settled from a very pleasant dream, her body humming with a warm, all-encompassing arousal that prompted her hand to move lazily between her legs, to then come enough awake to recognize that the person in the dream had been _Trev_ — She froze momentarily and then yanked her hand away.

 _Maker_. No one could control what they dreamed about; it was all random images and thoughts and emotions stitched together in some haphazard way in the Fade. There might be moments that seemed to make sense, but the whole had no logic or structure and things were rarely straightforwardly what they seemed. Dreams did not reflect reality. They rearranged it. They were metaphors, or references several times removed. Cassandra had been discussing marriage and listening to others discuss it, and kissing as well, and she was going to have to kiss Trev, and she was highly stressed by the whole thing; it was no wonder that some jumbled reflection of these things turned up in her dreams. It didn’t mean anything. In real life she was not attracted to women. She was certainly not attracted to Trev.

It meant nothing. She would not think about it.

*           *           *

In the end, it was all very simple. Sera was positioned as a lookout to warn them when the Duke approached and to give them the all clear when he was gone. Dorian and Bull, stationed to prevent those who might walk that particular stretch of stairs and battlements, were not even needed in the end, for no one tried. Josephine had the most complicated job, persuading the Duke to walk with her, and his belief that any beautiful woman would desire to spend time with him made that task simple. So all that was left to Trev and Cassandra was to act, and to do so convincingly.

Convincingly. That would not be hard. The part that would be difficult would be making it seem an act, making it seem to Cassandra as if she did not really care. There was a sick knot in Trev’s stomach as they waited, and she was quite certain that her hands would be shaking if she unfolded her arms. But she was going to go through with this. It was for Cassandra.

And then Sera waved from her perch on the corner of a roof, and Cassandra turned to her, looking pale and flushed all at the same time. It was time; the Duke was climbing the stairs with Josephine. Trev unfolded her arms.

“If we are going to do this,” she said somewhat grimly, “I am going to do it properly.”

Cassandra opened her mouth, then shut it again, and nodded and swallowed. “Yes,” she said, and put her hands on the Inquisitor’s shoulders.

And so Trev carefully shut down her mind, and reached out and put her arms around Cassandra’s waist, and pulled her close. The Seeker, for once, was not wearing her cuirass; Leliana had helpfully pointed out that no one in their right mind would engage in passionate embraces while in armour if they had any choice in the matter. She was still in leather, but the shape of her body was much more evident than usual, pressed up against Trev’s. Much more evident. Trev tried not to think about it.

And then she thought, _No, I_ will _think about it, because it will never happen again, and I want to remember. I want to remember all of this. Even if it’s not real. Even if I’m a fool for wanting to remember the feeling of something I can never have_. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see hesitation or discomfort in Cassandra’s.

The other woman’s mouth was soft and warm and uncertain against hers. Trev kissed her lips lightly, then again, and again, then, a surge of love and passion welling up like warm smokey syrup, then kissed slowly along the line of her jaw, down her neck. _Some of this is real, at least_ , she thought. _What I feel is real_. Cassandra smelled of fresh air, and smoke and metal, and she wanted to taste—no, stop. Trev swallowed hard and kissed back up her throat to find her mouth again, to tease her lips, open-mouthed. Cassandra’s lips parted, and she could feel warm breath mixing with her own.

One part of her held herself under rigid control, for without that restraint she could not have stopped herself from going further, from letting her tongue tease and explore, to truly fall into the passion of it, and she did not think that Cassandra would be prepared to tolerate that. To an observer, it would doubtless appear thoroughly passionate, and that was all that was required, and no more. She came very close to forgetting herself as it was, for Cassandra had apparently been inspired to emulate her approach to kissing, and was now holding her tightly, her own mouth moving against Trev’s, then nuzzling below her ear, lips fluttering against her skin, then finding her mouth again. Trev burned, every inch of her body alight.

She vaguely heard Josephine’s embarrassed exclamation, the grunt of surprise from the Duke, and then hurried, muffled words as the Ambassador led him away from their dark corner. She kept kissing Cassandra. It was what she was doing. It was what she would do as long as she was able, until they were out of sight and someone signalled that they should stop.

Cassandra must have been watching for that signal over her shoulder, for she eventually lifted her head and took a deep breath. Trev reluctantly let her hands slide off the Seeker’s hips. It was over. She opened her eyes.

The Seeker moved her lips soundlessly, seeming unable to find words. She had flushed a deep red. “Thank you,” she eventually said stiffly. She dropped her hands and took a step back, seeming rigid with embarrassment.

Trev, still aching with need and something that went much further, managed to pull herself together, at least on a superficial level. She tried to ignore the thing inside that was shrieking. She managed a light, “My pleasure!” with a raised eyebrow and what she hoped looked like a smirk. Cassandra, predictably, rolled her eyes, and they both relaxed a little.

Leliana slipped through a door and joined them. “Well, I believe that was quite convincing,” she said cheerfully. “though we will need to wait on Josie’s report to be sure. But I must congratulate you both on your efforts.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and the spymaster’s smile widened.

“I have things I must see to,” said Cassandra then, nodded at Trev, and walked quickly away. The Inquisitor stared after her.

“I hope this works,” she said to Leliana.

“Oh, I think it will,” said the spymaster. “One way or another. I will speak to Josie and let you know the outcome as soon as I can, Inquisitor.”

Trev walked slowly back to her quarters. There was work to do, but she had no mind for it. She knew she could do no more useful tasks today. She moved papers around aimlessly until Leliana reported back to her. The performance had indeed been a success: according to Josephine, the Duke had been scandalized and infuriated by the wound to his pride, but after huffing to the Ambassador in terms just short of offensive, he had indicated that he would be returning to Orlais as soon as possible. Cassandra, said Leliana, was very relieved, and sent a message of thanks to the Inquisitor again via the spymaster. Trev nodded, said woodenly that she was glad to have been of assistance, and asked Leliana to arrange to have a meal sent to her later, as she planned to work late in her quarters. She could not face the possibility of seeing Cassandra again that day.

It was done. It was over. Alone again, Trev put her fingers to her lips and tried to remember exactly what kissing Cassandra had felt like. The memory had already started to fade a little, to shift; such things always did. But she would hold it to her heart as long as she was able.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_Professor Larkin has criticized this work on the basis of its use of the romance tropes in common play at the time, but that does not mean that it should be dismissed so lightly. The romance genre does not stop at women. Has he not read the classic work of Lewis Love? The fact that Love took brawny druffalo herders as protagonists does not mean that the works themselves were not romances._

_Take the second chapter as an example. The trope of the pretend couple is extraordinarily common in romance literature. The metaphor of the feigned kiss as an opportunity for discovering truths about oneself seems irresistible to many writers, including Tethras, who is known to have used it on at least one occasion. It establishes the binary nature of the tension between truth and lie, between confusion and understanding, that underlies both the heroes’ personal journeys and the relationship between them._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_Absolute balderdash. Love’s protagonists stood for manly virtue; there was nothing romantic about them whatsoever._

_The entire basis of this narrative is contrived to a degree that makes immersion in the story impossible. Furthermore, the romance itself is impossible. It is a matter of public record, as detailed in the private documents of Divine Beatrix, that Seeker Pentaghast had relations with a man, the mage Regalyan D’Marcall, so it is highly unlikely that she would be attracted to a woman. To assert that it is possible is the worst kind of proselytizing censorship of reality. This habit of socially judicious whiners of describing a range of alternative narratives where they could not possibly exist entirely ignores historical fact and is negationism of the worst kind._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTER TO PROFESSOR T. LARKIN:_

_You are seriously asserting that there are no women who change in their affections, or can love both men and women? Have you never read anything but scholarly works, nor seen any Orlesian theatre?_

_—Eleanor du Barry_


	3. The Aftermath

Cassandra returned to her loft and sat immobile at her table, waiting for word from Leliana, and finally received it: they had been successful. The spymaster left, but she still sat unmoving.

She had set herself to the task of kissing the Inquisitor as to any other mission, with a sense of duty and requirement. “If we are going to do this, I am going to do it properly,” Trev had said, which was exactly her attitude: once decided, she would do it convincingly or not at all. She had been mildly embarrassed by the need to involve Trev, but confident in her trust in their friendship. It might be a little awkward, but the Inquisitor wanted to help—her initial reaction had been concern for Cassandra’s discomfort if such a deception was practiced, knowing that she was not attracted to women—and Cassandra was confident that Trev would not be hurt by it.

She had not anticipated that the kiss would be arousing.

She had been utterly convinced that she felt no attraction to the Inquisitor; even the dream, some nights before, had not shaken that conviction, for it was only a dream. But desire had surged, all unexpectedly, when Trev’s lips fluttered against her neck, and again when she kissed her mouth with such gentleness, such caring. _It was a performance_ , she reminded herself now. But her body had not thought so at the time. Her body had responded with a sharp blade of pure tenderness and lust that drove all logic, all thought, from her mind, so that there was no room for anything other than the aching, the wanting, and it had lasted all through the kissing and beyond. She had not wanted to stop kissing Trev. She had wanted to kiss Trev properly, and in private, not as a performance for someone she despised. She had wanted to do considerably more than that.

And worse than the lust, the _feelings_. She did not know what she should call it, beyond tenderness. Beyond fondness. Her mind skittered away from the feelings and the words that might best describe them. The whole thing was dreadfully unsettling. To feel such things about the _Inquisitor_... it was inappropriate. It was unthinkable. It was impossible.

And in any case, Trev did not share her feelings.

It threw everything she knew about herself into disarray, leaving her more deeply disturbed than she had been in years. She had not been attracted by many men, cautious as she was about liaisons, had slept with only one, and had never had the least interest in women. Yet a simple kiss, a _feigned_ kiss that was only a deception, had roused something in her that she had previously only felt with Galyan. It made no sense.

She fasted that night, alone in her loft, and prayed. She did not want to see the companions, who would laugh and tease her about the day’s events. She would have to see them eventually, but not now. She did not want to see the Inquisitor. She no longer understood herself, and did not know how to face Trev. But after all the prayer, all the desperate trying to comprehend, she still did not know how to understand what had happened.

*           *           *

Leliana had a streak of cruelty that sometimes manifested in her implacable treatment of enemies, but she was not inherently malicious, and she did not turn her cruelty on her friends. Trev counted herself one of them, though they were not especially close.

She thought that the spymaster was well aware that she found the Seeker attractive, and knew that Cassandra was easily embarrassed about matters relating to romance, and believed that it would be an excellent game to tease both Inquisitor and Seeker with her solution to Cassandra’s dilemma. She did not think that Leliana would have played such a game if she had any idea of what Trev really felt. She did not think that Leliana would have done it if she understood how badly it would hurt Trev. But that was little consolation. Now everything had been stirred up. Now it was worse than it had been that first time, when Cassandra had refused her. Then she had been able to tamp down her feelings to their proper place until she felt only a mild attraction, or so she thought; evidently she had been wrong. It seemed that she had only been able to force herself not to think about them, and while they had been so carefully tucked away they had grown.

She couldn’t sleep. It was hopeless. She might as well do something productive. There was a great deal of research that needed to be done, and she had recently been working in the ancient library in the cellars. Perhaps the book she had been reading there, a particularly dull tome on Tevene history, might help put her to sleep. She made her way down into the depths of the keep.

But it was no use; the words swam before her. She could not stop thinking of Cassandra, feeling a gut-wrenching ache. She wanted to tell her... everything. She could not. She must not. It was impossible. But the urge to speak was so strong, so overwhelming, that she felt she would go mad if she could not give it expression. _I could write bad poetry_ , she thought to herself, grimacing derisively, despising the banality of the thought and what it said about her state of mind. _Is that not what one is supposed to do when one is hopelessly enamoured? Spill it all onto a page?_

Perhaps it was not such a bad idea, if no one saw it.

 _There is copper in my mouth,_  
_the taste of blood and desire,_  
_my heart spilling between my lips._  
_Surely these words bleed from me,  
_ _sharp and unspoken._

She looked at the words, cramped and small and unfamiliar on the endpaper of a mouldy, disintegrating old book on weaponry. It did not even look like her writing, the letters sharp and irregular; her hand had been shaking as she wrote. She did not like defacing books, but although there was pen and ink there was no other paper in the room, and she did not have the energy to fetch any. She’d chosen the book simply because it was close at hand and an older copy of one that was in the main library upstairs. It was in a fairly disgusting state of disrepair; it was unlikely that anyone would choose to read it.

She thought of tearing the page out and burning it; but no. She could not bring herself to so damage a book, and some part of her knew that she might need to see it, to read the harsh reality of those words on the page, again and again.

She was surprised, emerging into her own quarters, to find the first grey light of morning showing through the windows. She felt exhausted. Perhaps she could sleep now, for a couple of hours, until a servant came with breakfast, with Josephine on their heels, to discuss the day’s schedule. She doubted that it would do her much good.

*           *           *

After the first round of delighted comments following the staged kiss the companions didn’t tease much, or at least not where the Inquisitor could hear—Trev had made her annoyance with the topic very plain. But Sera had enjoyed the spectacle far too much to let it go entirely. Trev had planned to speak to Cassandra after discussing some supply issues with Ser Morris in the quartermaster’s office, but as she stood near the open door studying a list of materials to be ordered, voices drifted toward her from the training yard.

“So Cassandra, how was kissing a woman?”

Trev sighed. Sera, at it again.

“Like kissing a man, but shorter,” said Cassandra drily. Trev smiled a little to herself. Cassandra did have a sense of humour, although it tended to be subtle enough to escape Sera’s notice.

“Shit, it should have been better than _that_.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Slyly, “Not wanting to do it again, then?”

An exasperated sigh. “Sera, why are you so interested in my love life?”

“Because there isn’t one? Come on, everyone knows about you and Varric’s books. You love that shit, and don’t tell me it’s all the romance and none of the their-bits-on-your-bits. So why aren’t you sliding your bits with someone? I’ll bet Quizzy’d jump at the chance after that kiss you gave her—”

“Enough!” roared Cassandra, and now she truly did sound angry. “There is nothing between the Inquisitor and I but friendship! Can you not understand such a thing? It is not about to change because of your prurient interest!”

“All right, all right,” said Sera, sounding entirely uncowed. “Your loss, then.”

Trev looked at the parchment blankly, and decided to ask Ser Morris for supply records to review in detail. She had no wish to emerge from the quartermaster’s office until both Sera and Cassandra were safely gone.

Well. If she hadn’t already known that Cassandra had no interest, she did now. She was upset even by the suggestion that Trev might be attracted to her. The closeness she had felt, kissing the Seeker, the tenderness, the love, none of these were in any way returned, at least not beyond the level of friendship. The passion had all been an act on Cassandra’s part, and Cassandra believed that she too was acting. That was a good thing, probably. And it was not really a surprise.

But some part of her had hoped against all odds, and that part—that part wanted to lie down in a ditch and howl.

*           *           *

Cassandra had been teased by the companions, as she had known would happen, and she had turned red, as she had known she would, and Trev had glowered, which she had not expected. The Inquisitor’s quirky and unpredictable sense of humour and self-deprecating attitudes generally made her immune to embarrassment when she was teased, and she was very good at deflecting with a quick bit of repartee. At least it was heartening to know that her discomfort was shared. Or perhaps Trev was simply being protective of her? It might not be so, but the thought warmed her.

She should not have lost her temper with Sera, but she had been unable to help herself. The others had left off their teasing, but the sly rogue could never resist prodding if she thought someone showed a weakness. And she did have a weakness, even if was not simply the embarrassment at having to participate in such a public display that Sera thought it was. The physical attraction to the Inquisitor had not lessened in the days after the kiss, and her emotional disturbance had not settled; if anything, it had worsened.

She felt... lonely.

 _Maker, I am being ridiculous_. Most of her life had been solitary, and it suited her. She never felt lonely; she was comfortable with herself and did not require others for completion. She certainly did not need the Inquisitor to complete her. She just wanted... she did not know what she wanted.

She wanted to hit something with a sword. Yes. She wanted to hit something with a sword, hard. The dummies would do. She threw herself into her training routine, and worked until she was hot and sweaty and tired, and then did another half hour. And then she went looking for someone to spar with. Bull, maybe. Sparring with Bull required all her attention. That would be a good thing.

It was ridiculous to feel _lonely_.

*           *           *

_Caught in the cloaca of the dragon—_

Back in the old library again a few days later, Trev read what she had written, shuddered, and crossed it out. She had acquired some scraps of paper, filched from Josephine and Ser Morris’s offices when she pretended to be writing notes to herself. She wrote drafts of poetry on those scraps. She could have used the writing materials in her quarters, but she wanted the writing to be completely anonymous, and she suspected that the paper she was provided with was of better quality than that given to others. After that first day she had also changed her writing deliberately.

It was safer to do this in the ancient library, as she did not entirely trust Leliana not to search her rooms. She kept the supply of scraps tucked into a book on the history of the Chantry, copied the final poems to the end pages of the old tome on weapons, and meticulously burned the drafts.

 _Something simmers, seething and succulent,  
_ _a perverse ambivalence that stakes me to the sky._

Better.

Sort of.

She crossed it out and scrubbed her palms across her eyes and then sat with her head in her hands. She knew that it was not good poetry; that didn’t matter. It was not meant to be read by anyone; she was not an Orlesian, submitting her work to small publications in the hope of critical acclaim.

Writing poetry helped exorcise the pain, if only for a very little while. That was the point of it. She supposed she would get over this eventually—she had succeeded in suppressing her feelings once, she could do it again—but Maker, why did it have to take so _long_? And why did the poetry have to be so _bad_?

*           *           *

Cassandra prided herself on her practicality and self-control and ability to withstand the distractions that others fell prey to. The current betrayal of both body and mind—one aching, the other pining dolefully and entirely ridiculously—was an outrageous affront to her sensibilities.

It was foolish to want something that was unavailable. She needed to focus on what she _could_ have. She need not feel lonely. She need not pine for Trev. She was living in a keep full of men, many of them attractive, and the camps around held many more. If she wanted a romantic liaison, surely she could find someone suitable.

She dismissed the men she knew best, Trev’s companions and advisors. If she had not found any of them interesting by now, she was not going to. But there were plenty that she did not know as well. Knight-Captain Rylen, for example, was a solidly built, pleasant and honourable man who had refused to join his Knight-Commander in the war between Templars and Mages, and had been recruited by Cullen. He was sensible and reasonably good-looking. And when he stripped to spar against others in hand-to-hand combat, he had a figure that showed well.

She made a point of watching the sparring for a few days. She thought that she was being subtle, but at one point he caught her eye and gave her a small smile. It was a minor exchange, but she thought that it was an invitation. So she asked him to spar with her on the next day.

He lasted fairly well, though he was never a serious threat to her. He did not seem bothered by his defeat, and afterwards asked if he could stand her a drink at the Herald’s Rest later. She accepted, and spent a pleasant evening talking to him, but for all the fine figure he cut, she found that there was no attraction, not so much as a twinge, and she found her eyes drifting far too often to the table across the room, where Trev sat with a few of her companions. She was not interested in Rylen, and she thought he knew it; though he had appeared to enjoy himself, he made no advances whatsoever, either that evening or at any other time.

And though she surveyed the men of the keep speculatively for a week or so longer, none of the others interested her either, and after that she gave up. Her attraction to Trev might be infuriating, but it also seemed unshakeably single-minded.

*           *           *

Trev had noticed Cassandra’s interest in Rylen; it was almost impossible that she would not, given her painfully acute awareness of the other woman.

Well. The Seeker was not in retreat from the world, after all. She was a passionate woman, and believed in romance. Why would she not look for it, if she could find it? Rylen was a decent man. He had been a Templar, so their service to the Chantry gave them something in common. Or would it? Templars were not generally fond of Seekers, she thought hopefully.

It was perfectly reasonable that Cassandra would consider a romance. It was unfortunate that the very thought of it made Trev feel as if something had taken all her nerves and strung them throughout the keep, without bothering to disconnect them from her first.

In the end, nothing came of it, and the parts of Trev that had staked themselves to the castle walls slowly came back to rest in their proper place, more or less in one piece.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_An important theme in this chapter is that of distraction and deflection: the Inquisitor seeks to deflect her feelings into poetry, the Seeker attempts to deflect her feelings onto an alternative relationship, facilitating a brief reference to the idea of jealousy and self-sacrifice._

_But the main purpose of this section is the introduction of the familiar trope of anonymous writings as a mechanism for discovery. The writer pours their heart out onto the pages, which are later found by the object of their affections. Sometimes there is an immediate revelation—a diary mentions names or unsent letters are addressed to a person—and sometimes the object of affection and/or the writer is unknown and the revelation is deferred. This work strings the related narrative through more than one chapter, so that the device provides a more in-depth opportunity for both writer and object to deepen the understanding of their own feelings._

_The fact that Trevelyan is not a good poet is important and reinforces my theories. The heroes in a Tethras story are not always heroic; they are flawed and make mistakes and do not do everything competently, and their imperfections are often used for comic relief, as in the narrative of Aveline as a clumsy suitor in_ Tale of the Champion _._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_Look, leaving the whole idea of whether anonymously written poetry is a creditable plot device, this poetry is simply not believable. No one writes poetry with the word CLOACA in it, even in draft form. This is trash._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTER TO PROFESSOR T. LARKIN:_

_*sigh* It’s supposed to be._

_—Eleanor du Barry_


	4. The Nutbread

The problem with flatbread, Trev thought, was that it was so very boring. It travelled well, but a diet of flatbread, jerky, and a little dried fruit got old very quickly. Surely there must be something better, or at least different, even if it was only available as an occasional treat?

Then, talking to a Rivaini sailor at the Herald’s Rest, she heard of a kind of nutbread that was made in the northernmost part of the country. “Hard to get,” said the sailor, “and expensive. But damn, it’s worth it when you got it.”

Well. That was worth pursuing. Trev put Josephine onto it; if anyone could find something rare and expensive, it was the Inquisition’s Ambassador.

She did find it, and arranged to import a small shipment. On hearing of its arrival, Trev, delighted, asked for some to be packed to take with them on an expedition to the Emerald Groves. They took flatbread too, of course; the nutbread might be inedible. But it would be a chance to try it out.

She put some in her pouch on the day that they set out toward the great ruin that stood high on a bluff; such places might be the lair of enemies or might contain items of great value, so they were worth taking the time to explore carefully. This ruin was larger than most. They split up: Cassandra and Dorian went in one direction, and Trev and Bull went in the other.

The ruin was a maze inside, and they got lost several times. Luckily it did not seem to have been claimed for use by their enemies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other possible threats; such places often were used as lairs by dangerous beasts, and in fact so it was with this one: wolves had denned in one wing. But there was nothing they couldn’t handle easily, and they found some possibly useful journal entries and notes as well as some mediocre weaponry.

Stopping at mid-day to eat, Trev pulled out the nutbread and offered part of it to Bull. But he was carrying some Qunari specialty that day, and declined. Which, she thought after tasting it, was a very lucky thing, because it meant she did not have to share, and the nutbread was _good_. Very good. It was dense and heavy and moist—had it been soaked in brandy? —and packed with nuts and dried fruit. She thought about it for a bit—should she let Bull know how good it was? No. She ate some, and then some more, and tucked the last bit away for later. And when they’d finished their meal, they moved further into the ruin.

*           *           *

“Trev... Trev, can you hear me? Wake up!”

There was a voice coming from somewhere. Everything seemed... different. Hazy and floating. She felt wonderful, if a bit sleepy. But someone was talking to her. She grunted.

Someone was tugging at her, asking her if she was alright. Of course she was, why wouldn’t she be? Apart from a certain lack of clarity in her vision. “I’m great,” she mumbled. “I—I can’t see, but I’m good.”

“Try using both eyes.”

Oh. All right. Oh, it was Cassandra. How nice! She liked Cassandra. She _loved_ Cassandra. Cassandra was wonderful. Cassandra was picking her up and putting her on her feet. How wonderful!

“Bull lost you. You were right behind him, and then you were not. What happened?”

But Trev was not paying attention. She simply stared at Cassandra, who was holding her steady, transfixed. “By the Maker!”

“What is it?” She thought rather vaguely that the Seeker looked worried, but couldn’t think why.

“You are _beautiful_ ,” she said in dreamy wonder. How had she never noticed this before? Oh, of course, she had.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened. She was beautiful. She had a beautiful scowl. She could never be anything but beautiful. She was— “And you are not yourself.”

Of course she was. Entirely. “Beautiful,” Trev murmured, and smiled at her.

Cassandra turned such a lovely shade of red when she blushed. Trev leaned back on a wall and drank in the sight, beaming. The Seeker had such beautiful lips. And they were soft, she knew that they were soft, from kissing her. Perhaps she might kiss her again? It seemed like a wonderful idea. She leaned forward.

Cassandra was looking around, seemed to be searching for something. “You are not drunk, it cannot be that. But perhaps something has poisoned you; something in these ruins, something that contaminated the air, or that you ate—”

“The nutbread was _good_ ,” said Trev vaguely, distracted from the thoughts of kissing. “I’d share it, but I ate it all. Or maybe I fed some to the singing rocks in the old garden? They were jealous, because all their flowers had died.” She was suddenly devastated. If there had been flowers, she could have given some to Cassandra. She could have given some nutbread to Cassandra, who was so beautiful, but there was none left. Oh, this was awful. She felt tears start in her eyes. Wait... Maybe she hadn’t eaten it all? Maybe there were a few crumbs left to share?

There were! And more than crumbs, there was almost a whole slice. She momentarily, remembering how good it was, thought about keeping it for herself, but no, Cassandra was beautiful. She loved Cassandra. She wanted to share with her. She held out the waxed cloth packet. “Josephine ordered it from Rivain. It’s sailors’ nutbread. It’s _good_. I didn’t want to give any to Bull, but I’ll share with _you_.”

Cassandra took the offered packet and unwrapped it, frowned. “This is _not_ Rivaini nutbread. This is Orlesian nutbread.” She sniffed it suspiciously, then ventured a very small taste. “This is Orlesian nutbread laced with _henbane_.”

“It’s very good,” said Trev happily. “Eat it!”

Cassandra stared at her. “Later.” She wrapped the piece up and put it away in a pouch. “Come along, Inquisitor. We must get you back to camp.”

“Beautiful,” said Trev dreamily. Cassandra, for some mysterious reason, made a disgusted noise.

*           *           *

It turned out that Vivienne had ordered nutbread for a small gathering of Orlesian courtiers from a very exclusive baker in Val Royeaux, a very specialized baker. Henbane-laced nutbread was something the most fashionable of the nobility dabbled in; it was seen as a slightly daring excess to be sampled and exclaimed over. Cassandra had encountered it once or twice while serving Justinia as her Right Hand, when required to attend events that she otherwise would have avoided, and after the first experience avoided it assiduously. It was served cut into tiny pieces, and only a very small amount was consumed, just enough to give one a pleasant buzz and reduce inhibitions slightly. It was not intended to be eaten in quantity, as the Inquisitor had done.

It was unfortunate that Vivienne’s order had arrived at the same time as the Rivaini nutbread that Josephine had imported for Trev, which was much drier and far less tasty. Cassandra did not rebuke Ser Morris, who had mixed them up; Vivienne had done an excellent job eviscerating him already, and she did not wish to be the final straw that broke a generally effective quartermaster’s back. But she did have words with Vivienne about the appropriateness of such dissolute frivolities at Skyhold. She was not certain that she came out in a position of advantage at the end of that conversation, but she consoled herself with the thought of all the courtiers—and Vivienne—faced with a plate of Rivaini instead of Orlesian nutbread.

The side effects of ingesting larger quantities of henbane included hallucinations; Cassandra was quite certain that the Inquisitor had reached that state, given what she had been babbling. Luckily there were no after-effects, beyond a crippling hangover. And Trev, for her part, seemed to remember very little of what she had said and done while under the influence, which was all to the good.

*           *           *

In fact Trev remembered everything perfectly, was wholly mortified by her own behaviour, and thought her best defence was to pretend that it had never happened.

Alone with her thoughts, she wondered what would have happened if her mind had been less distractible and she had acted on the impulse to kiss Cassandra. Perhaps she would have liked it? Perhaps—

No. She would have been disgusted, and shown it. No one wants a drunk pawing at them, and this was the same; and a woman not attracted by women would be doubly sickened. She could not bear the thought of Cassandra’s eyes looking at her with revulsion, of the Seeker turning from her in disgust. It might have been enough to end their friendship. It was very fortunate that she had not acted. It had been a very narrow escape, and the thought of what might have happened shook her badly.

But she still _wanted_ to kiss Cassandra. It was not just the sensuality of it; she wanted to show the Seeker what she felt for her. She spent far too much time imagining it, and then despising herself for imagining something that the object of her affections would have loathed. It felt like a violation of sorts, and led to a useless cycle of self-indulgent dreaming and then self-indulgent recriminations.

Her strength of feelings, however, did inspire her to write more poetry.

*           *           *

Cassandra, woken from sleep yet again in the small hours of the night by inconvenient and entirely inappropriately stimulating dreams, went desperately looking for distraction. Her body’s betrayal was infuriating and ridiculous, and she was _not_ going to stay in her bedroll, where she might be tempted to—no. A book would be a suitable diversion. She had her own books, of course, but their nature was not likely to reduce her current state of—well, they would not be _dampening_.

The ancient library in the depths of Skyhold was the best source she knew of truly boring books. The writing in many of them was antique in style, and sometimes printed in lettering that was antiquated as well, and difficult to read. The subject matter, for the most part, was dry, and much of it was outdated. She had done some research there on the history of the Seekers, but found little of interest.

She looked for something that would be dull but with enough to it that she would be able to force herself to read it, a delicate balance. Ah. There: a book on weaponry. It was a classic that she had read before, both mildly interesting in a historical sense and dull as the blade of a butterknife in the writing. Perfect.

She thumbed through it idly, looking for something to catch her interest. The book was in poor shape, its binding cracked and broken, the signatures coming apart in places. The cover was mildewed and almost falling off; she caught it, and then caught sight of writing on the endpapers. Well, that might be more interesting than the book itself: the annotations in old books were sometimes amusing.

But this was not amusing commentary: it was poetry.

 _There is something in me_  
_that is stubbornly perverse,_  
_branding me as a fool._  
_She could love me, it says._  
_I know it lies._  
_The only truth in the matter_  
_is that I could love her,  
_ _and do._

It was _romantic_ poetry. It was not awfully good, but that did not matter. It seemed achingly heartfelt, as if the writer had thrown his inmost thoughts onto the page. And there was more of it: a few verses here and there, in cramped, spiky writing. Fragments, not complete poems. Thoughts, moments, that the writer had jotted down.

 _I could love her, and do_. The words jolted her. She had carefully avoided thinking of _love_ in relation to Trev, but there it was. She had thought it impossible to love a woman, and yet she did. And like a fool, loved someone who could love her, but did not.

She shut her eyes and sat for a moment. She had been doing her best to suppress her feelings for the Inquisitor, and it had not been working very well. She was able to set them aside during the day, when she had many distractions, but it was harder at night, when there was nothing to accompany her but her own thoughts.

It was very hard indeed when they travelled on expedition together, and shared a tent. On the day that Trev had eaten the henbane-laced nutbread, Cassandra had come very close to breaking her rigid self-control and kissing her. They had been alone, and the way Trev had looked at her, face soft and open, and called her beautiful... Cassandra knew she was attractive in her features, but she did not think of herself as beautiful. A better word would be handsome. You could not be beautiful if you had a scarred face and had calloused hands and wore armour. Those who used the word about her were generally up to something. It was not that people had not said such things about her before, and to her face—Galyan had called her beautiful, and meant it, and she had enjoyed it—but too often it was a tool intended to extract something from her that she was not willing to give. But Trev had not been playing games of advantage, and had obviously believed what she was saying. And it had been said so lovingly.

No. She had not been in her right mind. It was important to remember that.

The poem spoke to her, and for her, and its melancholy provided a strange kind of relief, and made her feel less alone. Reading the words had provided an emotional release that she hadn’t known she needed. She sighed, put the book back in its place, and went back to her bedroll.

 _That is what I need_ , she thought to herself: _to love someone who can love me in return, with all the desperate passion and need and tenderness of the writer of those poems. I should not fling my heart against a wall of indifference_.

No, that was not fair; she knew that Trev was not indifferent. She was a good friend, and fond of the Seeker; it was simply that Cassandra wanted more than friendship. But she could not ask more of Trev than the woman could give. And from the point of view of her heart, which had become annoyingly fluttery in the Inquisitor’s presence, there was very little difference between friendship and indifference.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_Now we come to a classic: in vino veritas, truth revealed because someone has imbibed too much, or in this case eaten._

_The fact that the victim ate rather than drank doubtless has metaphorical significance, given the climax of the narrative._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_This is one of the least believable tropes in the entire narrative. The premise is ridiculous, suitable only for low Orlesian comedy._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTERS BETWEEN PROF. T. LARKIN AND PROF. E. DU BARRY:_

_It is possible that because your area of study is so limited you are unaware of the classic Tales of the Chakram, to which this chapter is both a reference and playful homage. I would be happy to advise you as to seminal readings on this subject area._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_So you are admitting that your author indulged in plagiarism. Hardly surprising in such a pathetic genre._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_Homage is not plagiarism, as you know perfectly well. You are behaving like a darkspawn lurking under a bridge. Perhaps this is a new form of scholarship in Fereldan, when one has no genuine arguments?_

_—Eleanor du Barry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who think they recognize it: yes, that is indeed an homage to another fandom tucked into this chapter. I shamelessly stole an entire chunk of dialogue.


	5. Day By Day

Cassandra was with her when Trev found the tiny tortoiseshell kitten with the bodies of her siblings, crying in a corner of a ruin in the Emerald Graves where they had camped. It was a very young kitten, painfully thin, and should not have been on her own. There was tattered fur outside a nearby door, and the Inquisitor thought that some predator must have taken the mother. “It would be better to kill it and put it out of its misery,” the Seeker said as Trev knelt to pick it up.

The Inquisitor gave her an outraged look. “You _cannot_ be serious.”

“It is really too young to survive without its mother,” said Cassandra practically. “You will likely only condemn it to suffering.” But Trev only gave an impatient huff, and tucked the kitten into her jacket, where it pitifully wailed for a few minutes before finally subsiding into silence.

A little later Cassandra found Trev trying unsuccessfully to get it to eat a little of the stew that had been cooked for them that night. “What are you doing?” she said.

Trev, a little pinker than usual, looked up. “Trying to get it to eat,” she said, “what do you think?”

“You cannot feed a kitten that young stew and expect it to eat it!” said the Seeker.

“Well, I certainly don’t have any _milk_ handy!” snapped Trev.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and walked away. The Inquisitor muttered to herself; it was probably fortunate that actual words were not audible.

But a few minutes later, the Seeker returned. “If you insist on trying to keep her alive,” she said, “your best chance is with raw meat.” And then she proceeded to cut a piece of meat into very, very tiny slivers with her own knife, and put them in front of the kitten.

The kitten licked the pieces, and then began to chew at them. It wasn’t very good at it, but the food was going down. “The meat in the stew was far too big for her to chew,” said Cassandra severely. “And raw is better for a cat than cooked.”

“I see,” said Trev, blinking.

The Inquisition did not need more cats. It already had an excellent supply; some people had managed to bring cats with them on the flight from Haven, astonishingly, some had brought them afterwards—Trev thought Master Dennet might have sent word out, as they were so important in keeping rats from the feed—and then of course, some were native to Skyhold, even in the relatively short time they had been there. It was silly to try to rescue one small, starving kitten and bring it back. In that sense Cassandra was right.

But the kitten ate, and seemed to thrive. And somehow, the Inquisitor noticed, it was Cassandra who always found the scraps with which to feed her. She seemed to have made an arrangement with the scouts who brought back game to camp. And on the way back to Skyhold, when they were not travelling with the scouts and Sera was the one who most often brought down the game for their dinners, she had convinced the rogue to watch for something small to take with a quick arrow, even if they didn’t need it themselves, even if there was not enough for all of them to eat more than a mouthful each, and they had to resort to jerky as a fallback.

The kitten seemed to know exactly who was responsible for its food. She purred at Trev, and cuddled with her and clung to her, but she also made a beeline for Cassandra if she came within range, sitting and gazing at her and making the smallest possible, almost silent mews. And the stern Seeker seemed strangely susceptible, frequently picking her up and cuddling her. She even took her gauntlets off to do so.

Trev watched the gentleness of the scarred, calloused hands stroking the kitten’s fur, and felt a pang of yearning sadness. She would have given anything to have the Seeker touch her with the same fondness with which she touched the kitten. She had attempted to name her Nugbait, but an offended Cassandra had refused to countenance that name; it seemed that she no longer expected the thing to die and had decided that it must be properly addressed. “Call her Handful,” she said, as the kitten squirmed against Trev in a lively way that required the attention of at least two and possibly four hands. “She is not much bigger than one.”

“We seem to have acquired a mutual pet,” Trev said. “Will you admit that I was right to try to save her?”

Cassandra huffed. “She is yours, not mine. But I will admit that she has done far better than I expected her to.” She reached across to take the kitten from Trev. Her hand brushed the Inquisitor’s as she did so, and Trev suppressed a violent urge to catch it and kiss it. “What do you think, little Handful?” she said, holding the kitten up. “Will you stay with the Inquisitor, and keep her company? Will you look after her? Will you sometimes come to visit me?”

 _If you were my love_ , thought Trev bleakly, turning to cut the meat for Handful’s meal, _she would not have to choose. But I think that if she chooses, it will be to stay with you, Seeker, and I cannot blame her; it is the choice I too would make_.

Back in Skyhold, though, neither prediction proved accurate. Little Handful, with a level of diplomacy few humans could manage, shared her time between them when both were in residence; for the most part spending her days with the Inquisitor and her nights with the Seeker. But sometimes she disappeared during the day, and sometimes she spent the night with Trev, cuddled purring against her; and those always seemed to be the nights when the Inquisitor had most needed the comfort of another warm body against hers, and most mourned its absence.

*           *           *

“This was not one of your better ideas, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra. Her voice sounded a little strained, which was unsurprising under the circumstances.

“I meant well,” said Trev reasonably, as the Seeker, breathing hard, finally made the top of the pile of fallen rubble. The stones were loose, and it had been a struggle to keep her balance when they slid. “I thought it was a spider. We’ve been running into a lot of them recently. I was trying to _save_ you. It’s not my fault that it wasn’t. Must my heroism go entirely unrecognized?”

“They are significantly different in form,” said the Seeker through her teeth, bending awkwardly.

“Not in the dark!” said Trev. “It was lumpy, and it dropped on you! What was I supposed to think? Ow! Don’t squeeze!”

“Sorry,” said Cassandra. It’s a tight fit.” She grunted, Trev suppressed a sound of pain, and then— “There,” said Cassandra. “We’re back in the main part of the cavern, at least. And unless our luck is very bad, the horses will still be outside.”

“You don’t want to carry me all the way to camp?” said Trev winningly, tightening the grip of her arms around Cassandra’s neck. “Isn’t that what the hero is supposed to do?” The light was still dim and the shadows were erratic, but the Seeker thought she was batting her eyelashes, and suppressed a smile.

“I thought yours were the heroic actions,” she said.

“Not if it involves carrying someone for miles,” said the Inquisitor, with conviction.

She _would_ have carried Trev to camp, if there had been need. She almost wished she could, just to keep her hands on her, to know that she was safe. Just to touch her, and be reassured. She had been terrified, thinking the Inquisitor lost, or seriously injured.

It had been a comedy of errors all round. Vivienne and Bull had gone in one direction, and she and Trev had gone in another, the two parties agreeing to meet back at camp. They had found a small cave that was being used as a hideout and cleared the cave of the Venatori who had infested it. Trev had been attempting to dislodge her knives, which had caught on the armour of the last defender and were proving resistant to efforts to pull them free. Cassandra had wiped the blood off her own blade and had just re-sheathed it.

And then something heavy, with a squeak, had fallen on her head from a ledge above and _clung_. She had let out a most un-Seeker-like yell. Trev, weaponless, hadn’t hesitated: she had bodily flung herself at the thing and attempted to pull it off. The thing, whatever it was, had somehow found a grip on the Seeker’s braid, and resisted. There was a great deal of squirming and high squealing: Cassandra was not sure whether it came from the thing or Trev. Or both. Certainly, none of it came from _her_. And then the thing finally lost its grip, and Trev stumbled back and fell against a crude barrier that the Venatori had put up, and the rotten wood gave way, and she disappeared into a narrow black hole. There was a resounding, rattling crash from below.

There had been a long silence then. Swearing frantically under her breath, Cassandra had found one of the magelight torches the Venatori had set in the cave, knocked aside during the struggle, and held it toward the hole. “Inquisitor?”

There was a groan from below. Then, “Ow,” said Trev plaintively.

Cassandra let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. If Trev had been seriously injured she would not have said _ow_. “How badly are you hurt?”

“It feels like I cracked some ribs,” said Trev, sounding a little breathless. “And I’ve certainly got bruises.” Cassandra cautiously extended the torch, and her head, into the hole. Another small section of cave opened up beyond it, a steep bank of loose rubble leading down to where Trev lay some considerable distance below, squinting at the light. In her arms, tightly held...

“If is not as if Leliana does not have enough nugs,” Cassandra said. “You do not need to try to acquire another one. And there is really no reason to assassinate them by using them as a mattress when you fall; they are not large enough to be of proper use.”

Trev looked down at what she was holding, and made a stifled noise. “The nug is _fine_ ,” she said bitterly. “It landed on top of me.” She released her grip, and the nug immediately released the grip of its tiny hands on her collar and gave a reproachful squeak and bolted into shadows. She sat up, wincing. “Let me see—”

She had started to get to her feet, only to fall back with a hissing sound of pain. “My ankle...”

“Is it broken?”

Trev moved her foot a little experimentally. “I think it’s probably just badly sprained, but I’m not sure. I certainly can’t stand on it.”

Cassandra was already sliding through the hole and making her way down the rubble slope to crouch beside the Inquisitor. “I am out of potions,” she said.

“So am I,” said Trev. “But there’s more back in camp.”

“Then let us get back there as quickly as possible,” said Cassandra. “I will carry you out of here. Take hold of me.” She reached, putting one arm under the Inquisitor’s arms and the other under her knees.

“I—” said Trev, hesitating, then reflexively clasped her around the neck and bit back a gasp of pain as the Seeker stood, and then she began to make jokes.

By the time they got to the entrance of the cave Trev’s arms around her neck had tightened, and after her last joke about heroic actions and carrying she subsided into silence. Cassandra hoped that it was not because she was in too much pain to joke anymore. It could not have been comfortable for her ribs being joltingly lugged up the loose, slippery rubble, which kept sliding out from under the Seeker’s feet, and she knew that squeezing through the hole had hurt her. She set Trev down on the ground carefully. The Inquisitor gave a sigh, probably of relief, and slowly released her grip, her hands sliding over Cassandra’s shoulders.

She did not remove Trev’s boot; it would provide support and prevent swelling to some degree. But she did run gentle hands down the inside, along Trev’s calf to her ankle, to ensure that the problem was not a leg that had been badly broken. The ankle was swollen, but there was no blood, and she could not feel a break in the leg itself. Trev sat very quietly while she ran hands over her, and said nothing.

Cassandra made a crude splint, to help keep the ankle steady, and lashed her stirrup up and out of the way. The Inquisitor was a good rider, and as long as they were careful she would do better without it. And then she lifted Trev carefully onto the horse. The Inquisitor looked down at her and gave a crooked smile. “My hero,” she said lightly. Cassandra rolled her eyes and said nothing.

Back in camp, a potion consumed and her ankle and ribs healed, Trev laughed and bantered with the scouts. Cassandra sat and stared into the fire, pretending to listen to Vivienne.

She would have carried Trev back to camp, had it been necessary. She would have carried her to the ends of the earth, and beyond, to keep her safe. And being a hero had nothing to do with it. But that was not something that she could say to the Inquisitor.

She wished—she wished that it was more than a joke to Trev.

*           *           *

Orlesian food, Trev thought, was generally overrated and not worth the effort put into it. Some of it was very good indeed, and she enjoyed it immensely as a treat, but a constant diet of such elaborately prepared meals would be tiresome. The cooks at Skyhold on the whole for the most part prepared simpler fare, which suited her well, though there was an undercook who had been trained in Val Royeaux, and when there was a need for more impressive meals to entertain visiting nobility he was very capable of managing it.

But there were certain Orlesian treats that she could not get enough of. Leave aside the beautifully designed, layered pastries with cream fillings; there was a simple kind of fragile buttery puff pastry with jam filling that she would have eaten every day if she had a chance. It was probably a good thing that the cooks made them so rarely, she thought, or she would soon explode out of her armour.

The benefit of a formal dinner was that there were always leftovers to raid from the kitchens, and the cooks knew her preferences and reserved them for her. After one particularly extravagant meal, Trev found Cassandra in the kitchens the next day, on exactly the same mission, though with a different target. “I learn something new about you every day, Seeker,” she said with delight. “And here I thought your passion was only for blueberry tarts.”

Cassandra, holding a plate of tiny eclairs drizzled in chocolate, flushed. “I—these will spoil if they are not eaten today,” she said. “And there were no tarts.”

Trev grinned. “Indeed they will. Can I tempt you to join me in an orgy of over-indulgence?” Her mouth had moved faster than her brain, and she was suddenly aware of how it sounded, but fortunately the Seeker did not seem to have taken it as a suggestive comment.

“I would be pleased to, Inquisitor,” she said, a little formally. “Do we need to share?”

“We certainly do not,” said Trev firmly, and let the way to her quarters.

They ate far more than they should have; in the end Trev gave up a few jam puffs in exchange for eclairs, and agreed that they were wonderful, although she remained loyal to her favourite and thought Cassandra did as well. Little Handful indicated her preferences by settling on Cassandra’s lap and teasing the occasional dab of cream from her.

It was pleasant to sit like that, nibbling on extravagant treats and talking of nothing particularly important, only the books they had been reading for pleasure. Cassandra had discovered a new writer, and while she did not think her as good as Varric, she had enjoyed her first book and discussed it with enthusiasm.

And then, as they finished the last of the pastries, Cassandra leaned forward. “You are entirely covered in crumbs,” she said with a note of amusement, and gently brushed off Trev’s cheek with her fingers.

Trev, who was still chewing one last morsel of jam puff, stopped abruptly, her mouth suddenly dry, and then swallowed, feeling as if the mouthful was far too large to manage. The bolt that had struck her low in the belly when Cassandra touched her had been so strong that it left her weak and speechless; some small part of her thought it very lucky that a mouthful of food could be used as an excuse for so much. She thought her expression must show something that a mouthful of food could not explain, though; the Seeker had a slight frown on her face.

She must divert the other woman from whatever she was thinking. “You’re a fine one to talk,” she managed, attempting a pretense at good-humoured casual repartee, and reached out in turn to dab at a bit of cream on Cassandra’s cheek, close to the corner of her mouth. The Seeker went even more still and her frown deepened.

_Shit. Shitshitshit. That was a mistake. She’s going to figure it out. She’s going to realize how she affects me, and she’ll hate me for it. No, she won’t hate, that isn’t in her. But it will change everything. It will ruin our friendship._

And now she had a dab of cream on her finger, and the problem of what to do with it.

She must  _not_ lick her finger, she was absolutely certain of it. That would be far too suggestive.

What she really, really wanted was for Cassandra to lick her finger.

She could offer it. She—

 _Oh, Maker. Do_ not _think about that. Say something. Distract her._

And then Handful, perched on Cassandra’s lap, stretched up, front paws against her collarbones, and licked her cheek, just where the cream had been. She seemed intent on giving the Seeker’s face a lengthy, most thorough, and fully professional cleaning.

Cassandra’s eyes widened in startlement, and it broke the tension. Trev began to laugh, a little hysterically, and eventually, trying to fend off a very determined kitten, so did Cassandra, who had turned an interesting shade of red. They both laughed rather more than the situation warranted, Trev thought. But the kitten provided an excellent solution for the problem of the dab of cream on her finger.

It was a very narrow escape indeed.

*           *           *

They were exploring up a narrow slot canyon in the Forbidden Oasis when the scent drifted toward Cassandra, tickling something in her mind. It was pleasant and familiar, but she couldn’t quite—and then something in her body twitched alertly, and she had it.

“Run!” she shouted, and took to her heels. It was not easy to run in full armour, but it was better than the alternative.

By the time they got to the canyon entrance they were all panting and wheezing and dripping in sweat. Bull finally took his hands off his knees and straightened up. “What was all _that_ about?” he asked.

It was a reasonable question. It was just difficult to answer. She took a desperately-needed drink from her water flask and tried to find words.

“I smelled something,” she said finally. “I recognized the scent; it was a flower that is toxic when it is blooming and emitting pollen. It is very unlikely that we would find any enemies up that canyon.”

The others might have let that go, but Dorian was curious. “What was the plant?” he asked.

“The common name is Lordsflower,” said Cassandra.

“ _Lordsflower_?” said Dorian in delight, dashing her hopes that he might not be familiar with it. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never encountered it!”

“What does it do?” said Bull. “Is it useful?” He was asking, she was sure, if it could be made into a poison.

Dorian looked at her with a wicked smile, and waited. They were all looking at her. Damn him.

“It—” she started. “It is a stimulant.”

“Of a very particular kind,” murmured Dorian. She would definitely poison his drink next time they played Wicked Grace.

“Well, what does it do?” asked Trev.

Cassandra sighed. “It is an aphrodisiac,” she said.

“Well, damn!” said Bull. “Why were we running away?”

“Because it strips away all inhibitions and control and makes one rut with anything even vaguely sentient,” she said flatly.

“And?” said Bull. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“And how did you recognize the smell?” said Trev, looking fascinated. She would poison her as well. “Do you have _experience_ with this flower?”

She knew that she was blushing. Damn them all. “I... encountered it once,” she muttered, finally.

“Do tell, Seeker!” said Dorian, with altogether too much enjoyment in his voice.

Cassandra scowled at him. “There is nothing to tell. I was with someone I cared for, fortunately. But it was not a pleasant experience for either of us.” It had been dreadful, in fact. Afterwards, when the effects finally wore off, she had been badly distressed by her inability to resist the flower's influence, the way she had been driven by physical need like an animal, and Galyan had seemed equally upset. It had been all wrong. _She_ had been all wrong.

“I’m not seeing a downside to it,” said Bull.

“If you had experience of it,” she said bitterly, “you would not say that.”

And so they moved on, although not without some obligatory grumbling from Bull. But Cassandra noticed that the Inquisitor had a particularly complex and enigmatic expression on her face for some time afterwards.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_Here we have a series of short vignettes, each a classic awakening of interest trope, each ineffective in its purported function._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_More like a series of contrived excuses for bad writing. The narrative is fragmented and jumps between humour and pathos like a demented ram; there is no consistency._

_And kittens? What writer would introduce kittens to a serious story? Clearly the work is targeting silly young females with no sense of judgement or quality._

_And the final incident is beyond unbelievable, and wholly ludicrous. No one could possibly believe in such a ridiculous premise; to even reference it is insulting to the reader. How can anyone possibly take this drivel seriously?_

_—Thos. Larkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said before that Trev is not me, and that still applies. Except for the jam puffs. My god, the jam puffs. Mine, all mine, NO ONE ELSE GETS ANY. That is, if they are the jam puffs from Notte's Bon Ton Pastry in Vancouver. (Well, omg the ANYTHING from this bakery, really. But the jam puffs are my favourites.) It's a very, very good thing I don't live in that city any more.


	6. Caer Oswin

When they came back from Caer Oswin Trev knew that Cassandra was upset; it would have been surprising if she was not, given all that had occurred. She had been mostly silent for some days as they travelled, but one night when there were only the two of them awake by the fire she had spoken a little of Daniel. She had not spoken of her feelings about his death, but it was clear that she grieved, and deeply. On top of that, of course, was Lord Seeker Lucius. His death was not a sorrow, but his treachery had destroyed the order that she thought of as her family, and that must be a terrible blow.

Daniel’s end had been bad, the Lord Seeker’s betrayal worse. But that was the least of it, apparently. When they were back at Skyhold and Cassandra told her about what was in the _Book of Secrets_ she had never seen the woman so lost, so uncertain. She said so, and Cassandra said bleakly that she did not believe the Seekers had been doing the Maker’s work. She had believed in the Seekers, and now found they had betrayed her. They had always betrayed her, right from the start.

It was only when Trev asked how she would rebuild the order if she could that she began to regain herself a little, to show a spark of what she usually was. And when she asked the Seeker to explain what she meant by the Maker’s work—there, there was the fire. “There is no way to know for certain,” she had said. “That is why we must seek it out.” And there was a fierceness and sureness in her voice then that Trev had not heard in days.

The seeking, the fierceness that drove it—that was what made her who she was. It was her nature, to look for truth. If anyone could rebuild the Seekers into something worthwhile, it was Cassandra, with her faith, her honesty, her caring. Trev said so, and she thought that Cassandra listened.

But although it had seemed to settle Cassandra at the time, something was still wrong, something deep and fundamental, and she began to wonder if the woman had taken a blow she would not recover from. Her faith was what gave Cassandra her strength and certainty. Now, with that shaken, she might know what she needed to do, but Trev thought she was still in some way rudderless. The faith that supported her was both strength and weakness, for while it made her spirit indomitable it also made it hard for her to change. Trev knew that she herself was far more adaptable; faced with the unthinkable, she would find a way to move around it. Cassandra came up against it like a storm against a wall, and might break herself battering against it.

No, that was not fair. Cassandra _could_ change, and did, and more than many; Trev had seen her do it. But it could be a hard, painful process. The heart of her courage was that she could change even when doing so tore her apart, if truth demanded that she do so.

Or so it had seemed. Now Trev wondered if she had come up against something she could not accommodate. She tried, once or twice, to subtly find out what was wrong, and was slightly less subtly rebuffed.

Cassandra’s level of patience had become short almost to the point of non-existence, and she always seemed out of temper. But this was not the fury and frustration that had shown itself when the Duke de Freyen had demanded that she acquiesce to his insistence that they marry. Now she did not rage. Now she was silent, sullen and unresponsive. When her temper broke she simply walked away. Now she closeted herself in her loft, insisting that she needed to do research. Trev thought that she simply read and reread the _Book of Secrets_ , in an obsessive search for... something.

Trev was not the only one to notice that something was wrong; several of the companions commented on it. The advisors were frankly worried. Cullen had drawn her aside and said that Cassandra had begged off from their weekly meetings. “I’m not concerned for myself,” he said, “I’ve been doing well. But it is not like her to ignore something she considers a responsibility. I’ve asked her if something is wrong, but she just said that she was unusually busy.” And both Leliana and Josephine had spoken about their concerns; they seemed to think that Trev might be able to reach the Seeker where they could not. Leliana, in particular, made it clear that she thought that Trev stood the best chance of getting Cassandra to actually talk about what was bothering her.

Trev thought about it for a long time, and was not so sure. Cassandra had shown no signs of welcoming inquiries as to her state of mind, and had projected a particularly forbidding glower when the Inquisitor had tentatively tried. It was obvious that she would not respond to an inquiry that was tentative or subtle, and Trev was not certain that she should push harder. Cassandra might respond to it, but only because it was her superior who asked, and never forgive her for it.

The risk of losing the Seeker’s friendship terrified her. But she was hurting, and Trev wanted desperately to help. It would be wrong to hold back from helping Cassandra simply because she was afraid for herself. When they had travelled back from Caer Oswin she had talked to Trev, a little. She had trusted Trev that much. It was possible that she would talk to her again. At the very least, she must be made aware that Trev wanted to help.

She must try.

*           *           *

Cassandra had not gone to the game of Wicked Grace; she was in no mood for the silliness that prevailed on those evenings. She thought it best not to inflict her bad temper on others. Instead she sat at her table and reread the _Book of Secrets_ again. Perhaps there was something she had not perceived in it that would give her the answer she sought. It was unlikely; she had read it through several times now, and dully thought that she likely had it half memorized.

She was surprised, a little later, to hear footsteps on her stairs. She was even more surprised to see the Inquisitor, whom she had expected to be playing cards with the others. “May I speak with you?” said Trev.

“Of course,” said Cassandra, and Trev sat, frowning a little. Cassandra waited, wondering why she was there, but feeling too worn and tired to ask. But Trev did not speak: she looked as if she did not know how to say what she had come to say. Cassandra began to feel uneasy.

“You haven’t been yourself since we came back from Caer Oswin,” Trev finally said, bluntly. “I have noticed, others have noticed. I know that you are still upset about the Seekers; I don’t know if there is anything else. I came to see if there is anything I can do to help.”

Cassandra felt a rush of resentment. “I am sorry that my disturbance is noticeable, Inquisitor,” she said. “I did not mean to cause trouble for you or for the Inquisition.”

“I am not here as the _Inquisitor_ ,” said Trev somewhat tartly. “I am here as your friend, as one who cares for you. I don’t want to pry where I’m unwanted, and I don’t want to push you. You don’t have to talk to me. But you—you have helped me, at times when I was upset. I just wanted you to know that if there is anything I can do, I will do it. If you want someone to talk with, I will do it. If you want someone just to listen, I will do it. I—” She hesitated. “I would like to help, if I can,” she said finally.

Cassandra stared at her. She did not want to talk about it. She did not want to put it into words. She did not want to open her mouth and hear the words strike the air, hard and brittle and fragile. She did not think she was capable of explaining. She did not think anyone was capable of understanding, and a lack of understanding would make things worse. She desperately wanted Trev to go away and leave her alone, and opened her mouth to say so.

But Trev had asked. No, she had not even done that; she offered. Now she simply waited. Cassandra knew that if she spoke, Trev would hear. If she refused, Trev would not push further, and if she told her to go, she would leave. She was not ordering Cassandra to speak. She would accept Cassandra’s decision, though her offer would stay open if the Seeker changed her mind. None of that needed to be said; it was all there in Trev’s nature, in her kindness and caring and understanding of people. In her love for her friends. That knowledge was almost more terrifying than the fear of speaking.

*           *           *

Cassandra sat in silence for a long time. She opened her mouth once as if to speak, then shut it again. Trev thought that she would probably say nothing, in the end; but at least she seemed to be considering it.

When she did finally speak, it was with no preamble. “When the spirit touched me,” she said, slowly, painfully, “there was a moment... everything had been gone, and then it was back. But... how do I know that it was me?”

Trev sat for a moment, watching her. “You are not asking if you were possessed,” she said eventually. “The others would have known; it would be watched for.”

“No,” said Cassandra. “It is—I do not know how to explain what I am asking.” She stopped, and swallowed.

Trev let impulse guide her. She reached out, took Cassandra’s hand where it lay on the table, and held it gently. The Seeker could have withdrawn her hand from the Inquisitor’s grasp at any time; the hold was firm but not confining. Trev’s palm was up, and Cassandra’s rested on top of it. But she did not pull away.

“Something was returned to me,” Cassandra said eventually. “But I don’t know if what was returned was altogether myself. I had—lost myself. How do I know that what was given back was not a part of the spirit, even if it was not possession?”

Trev’s fingers tightened on hers briefly, then loosened. “It was not part of the spirit,” she said with absolute conviction. “Your faith is yours. Your emotions are yours. You are yourself.”

“But how do you _know_?”

Trev did not think she had ever heard such anguish in Cassandra’s voice, even at that moment of desperation when she blamed herself for Justinia’s death. “You are human,” she said fiercely. “Think of Cole. Cole is not a person in the same way. He is different. He does not think like a person does, and it is evident. If some part of you was not human, it would show.”

“Some people,” said Cassandra, “would argue that all too much of me is not human.” She attempted a smile.

“They do not know you,” said Trev, not smiling at all.

After a moment, Cassandra said, “But I was changed by it. I know that.”

“Then you were changed,” said Trev fiercely. “That does not make you less human; it makes you _more_ so.”

*           *           *

Trev didn’t lie, at least not about important things; if she said she believed Cassandra to be fully human, fully herself, she meant it. It was possible that she might not be right, but she was a perceptive woman, and her absolute conviction was comforting. And Trev did not seem to think that there was anything wrong with her. She stared at the Inquisitor, still disturbed but feeling better than she had in days. She no longer felt like her very self might dissolve under her, leaving nothing.

Trev stared back, looking like she would very badly like to hug Cassandra.

Cassandra was not a hugger. She had been hugged far too many times by strange adults when her parents died; by those not afraid of King Markus, at least. As a child she had loved being hugged by her parents, and Anthony’s hugs, but when he had died she had not wanted to be hugged by anyone, and again had not been able to prevent it. She had learned very young that in too many cases, the hug was not for the recipient but for the benefit of the person giving it, their sense of appropriateness, their understanding of themselves as a good person who gave comfort. She particularly detested the empty embraces and kisses of Orlesians, the falsity of it, the insincerity of the performance. She made it clear, through body language and occasionally more directly, that she did not like it.

She could not entirely avoid being hugged, but her friends and close companions understood that she did not like it, and generally refrained. Trev had hugged her once, when she had killed her first dragon, caught up in the excitement and surging adrenaline, hard and fast. She had apologized afterwards. “I did not mind,” said Cassandra. And it was true. It had been a genuine expression of emotion, of affectionate camaraderie, and there was no falsity to it; she was happy for Trev’s happiness, and in fact she had in some ways quite liked it. But Trev did not hug her again, though she was a person who tended to hug her friends.

And now Trev was trying to comfort her, and clearly wanted to hug her, for it was what she did when she gave comfort. And Cassandra did not know how to tell her that it would be all right.

*           *           *

Cassandra had not spoken again of her fears to Trev. She seemed much more settled in herself again, more confident; Trev thought that there might be an edge of doubt remaining, but she was far more herself. And then one day shortly after, walking through the shadowed trails of the Emerald Groves, Cole spoke to the Seeker.

“You’re thinking backwards,” he said earnestly. “You don’t have faith because of the spirit. The spirit came because of your faith. It’s you.”

She thanked him, and then as he dropped back to walk with Solas she looked to Trev, her face still; the Inquisitor smiled at her, and after a moment she smiled tentatively back.

After that she was fully herself; all doubts seemed gone. Trev was glad that Cole had been able to reassure her as no human could.

Trev knew that Cassandra trusted few people enough to share her inmost thoughts; she believed that Leliana might be one, at least in some matters. But the Seeker had not taken her fears to Leliana: she had borne them alone until Trev had intervened. And then she had made a leap of faith and spoken, and been comforted. Since then her manner toward Trev had become very subtly softer, more open, though Trev would not have noticed if she had not been so attuned to her every word, every movement.

 _It has made us closer_ , she thought then. _She entrusted her fears and doubts to me, and I know that I would not be afraid to entrust my fears and doubts to her. They would be safe with her. Anything I could say would be safe with her_.

Almost anything. There was still one thing that she could not speak of. Everything had changed, and nothing. They were closer friends, and that was all.

*           *           *

 _Our inaugural meeting was inauspicious._  
_How could I have known_  
_that it would lead my heart in such directions?_  
_Now in this crepuscular light_  
_where shadows dim you, all things seem possible,_  
_even my voracious appetite for your love;_  
_shadows hide possibilities._  
_But when the sun finds the crease at the side of your mouth,_  
_you frown against its glare,_  
_and I find myself lost,_  
_caught in a maze of heartache and_  
_strung on a rack of passion,_  
_there is no resolution._  
_We are close, closer;_  
_but the movement of your hands,_  
_the shifting of your body,_  
_the weight of your eyes meeting mine,_  
_armour-sharp and conspicuous in their message:  
_ _this is not for you._

There was _more_ poetry. There were at least two pieces that had not been there when she first discovered the writing. She had returned once or twice to the library, finding comfort in the words, though in her disturbance after Caer Oswin she had not been able to bring herself to visit. But now, after Trev’s words of reassurance and then Cole’s intercession, she was more settled in her mind; and with that settling, the distress of her infatuation had roared back to life, stronger than ever.

Trev had been so kind, and she had seen to the heart of what disturbed Cassandra immediately. Anthony would have understood as well, she thought; she was not so certain about Galyan. He had been very perceptive about her in some ways, but not all, and did not really understand her faith. To love and be loved by someone who understood her even though she did not share her faith... no. She must not think of that. It was impossible.

But it was also impossible not to think of it, impossible not to ache for what she could not have. The poems were a respite, the voice of things she could not say. And she was absolutely certain: when she last visited, these verses had not been there. And if they had not...

If they had not, then these were not the writings of some ancient scholar; they were the thoughts of someone who lived in Skyhold now, or at least visited it regularly. She wondered briefly who he might be, and if it was someone she knew, but quickly put the thought aside. She was not like Leliana, who must have a finger in everything, must know each detail of every thought. She did not care whose feelings these were, and thought it was probably better not to know. These were someone’s inmost thoughts, and she did not want to trespass on their grief, or discover a new awkwardness in her knowledge if it turned out to be someone she knew. The only importance was in the words themselves, in how they spoke to and for her at this difficult time.

She was careful, after that. She developed a routine. She made a point of going to the library at specific times, and casually mentioning that she was doing research regularly, and when, and soon anyone who might need her knew when to find her there. She did not want to surprise and embarrass the author of the poetry, and this would allow him to avoid her. She did not want to do anything that would cause him to stop writing his hurried fragments; they had come to mean a great deal to her.

She occasionally found Trev in the library, doing her own research, which was pleasant, and another reason to visit the place, if a bittersweet one. But in all her visits she never got the slightest clue as to who the mysterious poet was.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_The betrayal of the Seekers by Lucius Corin was a critical blow to the Order as it stood at that time, and would have nearly destroyed it even without the revelations of the Book of Secrets. This story provides fascinating insights into the personal reactions of Seeker Pentaghast to her discoveries, and illuminates the motivations behind her efforts to rebuild the Seekers._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_To invent a personal crisis to explain the inspirations behind Cassandra Pentaghast’s actions is a perversion of history. The facts of the matter are clear; we do not need to speculate on the emotional state of the individuals involved. Such personal issues are irrelevant to the political situation and a distraction from more important concerns. History must be composed only of verifiable facts and viewed only with a calm, impersonal eye: to do otherwise is to distort and falsify it._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTERS BETWEEN PROF. T. LARKIN AND PROF. E. DU BARRY:_

_There are people involved in making history; their emotional states and motivations are relevant to their actions. To suggest otherwise is to leave out half of the story._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_If the half of the story left out is that of hysterical romantics, there will be no loss._

_—Thos. Larkin_


	7. Emprise

Everyone knew that the Inquisitor was upset: that had been clear from the moment when Harding, grim-faced, had reported the deaths of the scouts that Trev had asked her to send out. They should not have died; although Sanna was a fairly new recruit, Barker was a middle-aged man with more experience than most in the Inquisition’s forces. But they must have been careless, somehow, or simply unlucky, and they died for it. When they had not reported back as expected, Harding had sent more scouts, this time backed by soldiers, and they had found the Red Templars responsible still near the bodies, and killed them. Luckily no one had died in that fight. The bodies had been buried under a rough cairn, and their personal effects brought back.

Trev stood for some time holding the tiny carved cat that Sanna had worn on a necklace, and then she had looked at Harding. “Did she have a close friend?” said the Inquisitor.

“Everyone,” said Harding bitterly, and Trev flinched.

It was true. The young scout had been an only, much-loved child who had fled Kirkwall with her parents when it fell, hoping for a better life. Though raised in a city she’d taken to scouting like someone born and bred to it, and her sunny, open disposition and generosity of spirit had endeared her to everyone. Sometimes the entire army seemed to have taken her under its wing, and Harding herself had been mentoring her. Cassandra knew that Trev had developed a strong affection for the young woman. Everyone had.

“If she had no particular friend that you think would like this,” said Trev, “or if you do not want it, I will return it to her family when I write to them.”

“I—would like to keep it,” said Harding, tears standing in her eyes, and the Inquisitor immediately handed it to her, nodded briskly, and walked away.

Trev was busy with military planning for some time after that, and Cassandra did not see much of her. She was grateful that they would have a day in camp; they had been travelling and camping rough in snow and ice for many days, and it was pleasant to have a break from it.

But in the afternoon, somehow, plans changed. Trev wanted to head back to Sahrnia, and wanted to start the same day. “But there are only a few hours of daylight left,” said Cassandra, puzzled.

“We’ll make enough distance to make it worthwhile,” said Trev, and so the Seeker sighed to herself and began to pack her things again.

Trev pushed them later than they usually would have gone towards dusk, and it was almost dark by the time they set up camp. That made it harder than usual to find dry wood, and the fire that night was small and gave little heat. But they were all tired, so after their evening meal everyone went to bed except Solas, who had taken first watch. Trev came to bed in the tent she shared with Cassandra, silently rolled herself in her blankets, and went to sleep.

Or so it had seemed. But a few hours later Cassandra woke and saw that the bed was empty. She put her head out of the tent and looked around. Blackwall had taken over from Solas, and was sitting near the fire. “Where is the Inquisitor?” said Cassandra, beginning to worry.

“Walking the perimeter,” he said in a low voice. “You might see if you can get her to bed, she’s been at it for a long time.”

Cassandra pulled on her breeches and boots and jacket and emerged from the tent, shivering. It wasn’t hard to find Trev, even in the dim light from the new moon; there was a circle tramped in the snow around the camp. She followed the single line of footprints to it and then simply waited, and after a bit she heard Trev walking toward her.

The Inquisitor might have seemed be walking guard, but she was not watching for anything; she had her head down and almost collided with the Seeker. “Trev?” said Cassandra, and Trev stopped and stared blankly at her for a moment. “You need to rest,” said the Seeker, “or you will be exhausted in the morning.”

There was a pause. “All right,” the Inquisitor said, but did not move. Cassandra waited.

“I send people to their deaths,” Trev said after a moment, tonelessly.

“Trev—”

“Usually I can make myself not think about it too much.”

What could anyone possibly say to that? It was true. She was the Inquisitor, she gave orders, she sent people to their deaths. She was not the only one, of course, but that was not relevant.

 _Come to bed and sleep_ , Cassandra thought, aching for the other woman, _and in the morning it will probably be easier_. But she did not say it; the words would give no comfort.

One must give orders, if one took responsibility, but that did not make it easy. It did not make it easy to see the faces of the comrades of the fallen. It did not make it easy to write the letters, and Trev wrote a letter for every member of the Inquisition who fell. She did not have to do it; Josephine could have taken on that duty, so that the Inquisitor only had to sign them, and had offered to do so, or the task could have been shared. But Trev insisted, and made sure, amongst all the repeated _She was a brave fighter who fell defending her comrades_ and _He gave his life for the sake of Thedas_ , that there was something personal in every note she wrote. She could not know all of the Inquisition’s fighters, but if she did not know the fallen personally she found someone who did, who could tell her about them. Who could tell her how they had been loved.

Cassandra had written such letters herself, including the one to Daniel’s parents. She knew that there was nothing harder than finding words that might offer some comfort to those who grieved. She did not think that she could do what Trev did, and did over and over as a matter of course, because she was the Inquisitor and saw it as her duty. She had not given thought to the toll it took, because Trev never spoke of it.

But now she had, in a few words that said very little and far too much.

Cassandra did not say anything. She didn’t think about it. She just did what Cassandra Pentaghast never, ever, did, and reached out, and pulled Trev into a hug. The Inquisitor stiffened slightly, and then she seemed to relax, and her arms came up and wrapped round the Seeker and she let her head rest on Cassandra’s shoulder and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“We waste the lives of so many,” she said, barely audible.

“No,” said Cassandra then, certain, “it is not a waste. We stand against a great evil, and many of us will die because of that. But it is only failing to stand that would be a waste. This is simply a great sadness.”

“It is that,” said Trev hoarsely, muffled. And Cassandra felt her breathing catch and become irregular; she was silently weeping.

Trev was not embarrassed if someone saw her weep, and did not try to hide it, but if she did so in public she often seemed impatient with herself afterwards, as if it was a distraction from something more important. Cassandra thought that she probably saved most of her tears for the privacy of her own quarters. _I wonder how often she weeps alone?_ she thought then, and her arms tightened, and she let her chin rest on top of the Inquisitor’s skull.

She could have kissed the top of Trev’s head very easily—just a slight shifting of position, hardly anything—and she wanted to do it. A friend might kiss the top of a friend’s head, if they were in distress. It would not mean anything except affection and wanting to give comfort.

But she did not.

*           *           *

Trev had not expected Cassandra to hug her. The Seeker did not like hugging, and everyone knew it. When Cassandra spoke she had intended go back to bed and try to sleep, for the Seeker’s sake if not her own. She knew Cassandra well enough to know that once her protective instincts were roused she would not give way until the Inquisitor was safely in her blankets. She had not intended to say anything. But Cassandra had written letters of her own, difficult letters, and somehow she found herself speaking.

And then when Cassandra’s arms came round her, something in her sat up and howled, and that was that. The Seeker had not seemed embarrassed or upset by her display; she simply stood there and held her until she began to recover herself. And eventually, when the Inquisitor had finally snuffled to a stop, she had said firmly, “You are cold and tired. Even if you cannot sleep, you must let your body rest.” And Trev had meekly acquiesced and followed her back to the tent.

She was cold, to the bone, though she had not noticed it before, and she began to shiver violently as she stripped down to her nightshirt. Cassandra’s arm touched hers as they pulled their blankets up, and the Seeker said into the darkness, “You are shaking.”

“I’m just cold,” said Trev. “I’ll warm up.”

“No, _I’m_ cold,” said Cassandra, “and you were out without a warm cloak for much longer than I. The word you are looking for is freezing. We will warm up more quickly if we share our blankets.”

They had done it before, when they became chilled on cold expeditions. But that was when Trev had her emotions under much better control. “Or you’ll end up just as cold as I am,” she said feebly.

“I will take that chance,” said Cassandra. “Come.”

They rearranged their blankets to make a thicker pile, shifting closer together, and then Cassandra reached out and pulled Trev down so that they lay spooned together, her front to Trev’s back, wrapping her arm around Trev’s waist. The Inquisitor could feel the other woman’s warmth spreading slowly like that of a banked fire, and eventually stopped shivering.

It was very practical. Cassandra looked for what was needed and then did it, and did not worry overmuch about propriety. If the Inquisitor was cold, she needed to be warmed, and this was the most efficient way to do it. Trev knew that the byproduct of comfort was not relevant to Cassandra’s thinking, but still felt comforted.

As she finally drifted to sleep, she thought: _But she hugged me. I have never seen her hug anyone by choice, and she hugged me. Perhaps it is not all so practical_.

In the morning Trev woke to find herself draped completely across the Seeker, wrapped round her tightly. Her head was on Cassandra’s breast, her arm wrapped around her waist, and her leg had tangled between the Seeker’s. Cassandra’s arms were around her.

It was too much. She could feel the swelling of Cassandra’s breast under her cheek. She could feel warmth against her thigh where it pressed between Cassandra’s legs; the fabric of the Seeker’s nightshirt separated them, but not by much. And below the nightshirts their legs were unclothed, and she could feel bare skin against hers. She felt a blinding, suffocating surge of arousal, and did her best to stifle it.

It would be best to extricate herself from the Seeker before Cassandra woke up. But she could not quite bring herself to do it. Instead she set herself to memorizing exactly what it felt like. It was self-indulgent, it was wrong, the whole situation made her desperately unhappy, but she could not stop herself. It was—

Cassandra gave a sleepy sigh and moved against her leg in a way that was frankly sensual, and Trev’s mind blazed to whiteness.

And then Cassandra froze. _She has come properly awake and remembered who I am_ , thought Trev then, regaining her ability to think and feeling a surge of despair, and did her best to breathe evenly, as if she was still asleep. _I can do this. I can do it without embarrassing either of us_. After a few moments she let herself snort and snuffle indistinctly, rolled away from the Seeker and shifted until she was facing in the other direction, and then made her breathing slow and even again. One of Cassandra’s arms was still under her, trapped by the weight of her body. She felt the Seeker move, shifting, to slowly pull it from beneath her, and apart from a small grumbling noise—she thought that would be reasonable—ignored it. There was a little rustling beside her again, and then silence. Breathe. In. Out. Calm and steady.

When she thought it had gone on long enough she changed her breathing, sighed and stretched and did her best to seem as if she was coming awake for the first time. She could hear the sounds of someone tending the fire. Blackwall should have called either herself or Cassandra to take watch during the night, but he had not. He must have decided that she should be left to sleep, and that even waking Cassandra might have prevented that. It was a kind thing to do.

Cassandra had been kind as well, the previous night, because of Sanna. It was the sort of kindness one offered to a friend, she thought bleakly, and opened her eyes.

Cassandra was lying on her back, eyes closed. Trev yawned, sat up, and reached for her clothes; Cassandra opened her eyes. Her face was guarded. “Good morning,” said Trev. “I think I smell bacon. Blackwall must have decided we need energy this morning.”

“I am always in favour of bacon,” said Cassandra, and sat up and began to dress, not looking at her.

Trev, ready before her, began to open the tent and then stopped. “Thank you,” she said, feeling awkward. “For your kindness last night. I... was not doing well. It helped. Enormously.”

“I am glad that it helped,” was all that Cassandra said in return, but she looked at Trev properly at last, and her face had softened.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_Another common trope is a kind of situationally-enforced sexual or emotional awakening that results from the protagonists being forced to share a bed: suddenly the nature of their bond becomes inescapably clear, and the characters declare their feelings. In this chapter it is combined with the classic hurt/comfort trope wherein one character offers solace to another who has been physically or emotionally harmed, a kind of eroticized nurturance that employs a narrative structure of emotional tension and release paralleling that of a sexual awakening._

_In both tropes the goal is to provide an excuse for a character to show vulnerability, particularly emotional vulnerability, with a consequent deepening of emotional connections and/or the sexualization of the relationship, but in this again, the expectations of the reader are thwarted._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_This offensive insistence on infusing every relationship, even that of a caring friendship, with such gratuitous sexuality should not be celebrated. It is clear that the sexualization of even nurturing portions of the narrative serves only the purpose of wish-fulfillment, and is a self-insertion of the worst kind, reinforcing my argument that the writer is likely an aging, deranged, unwillingly celibate female of the lowest sort._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTER TO PROF. T. LARKIN:_

_Have you tried self-insertion, Professor? It’s not as common—or as simple—as you make it out to be._

_—Eleanor du Barry_


	8. The Dance Lessons

There was to be another ball at the Winter Palace, this time to celebrate the anniversary of Celene’s ascension as Empress, and the Inquisition, as valued allies, had been invited. “It’s hardly necessary for me to be there,” grumbled Trev at the War Table. “You can represent us perfectly well, Josephine.”

“No, I cannot,” said the Ambassador firmly. “You are the one who helped Celene keep her throne; you are the one she wishes to see. It would be a very great insult if you did not attend. Which means there is once again a need for dance lessons.”

Marchers were not necessarily quite so uncouth as Fereldans in Orlesian eyes, but they lacked in social graces that were considered essential. One could get by without some of those qualities, but not all. The Inquisitor must be able to dance, and with more than just competence; and as Trev had known only the common dances and not the newest and most fashionable turns valued in Orlais, there had been a significant number of dance lessons, guided by Vivienne, before their first visit to the Winter Palace.

“I _had_ dance lessons,” said Trev rebelliously. “I daresay I will remember the steps.”

“You learned the dances fashionable _then_ ,” said Leliana cheerfully. “That was some months ago. They will have all changed by now.”

Trev rolled her eyes and looked at Cullen. She must have an ally somewhere. But Cullen seemed transfixed by the markers on the table. She suspected he was already planning an excuse to avoid attending. “That is not—I have better things to do with my time. What is the point of being Inquisitor if I can’t sit out a few dances?”

“There are some things that even being Inquisitor cannot save you from,” said Leliana. She did not seem properly distressed by this.

“We will arrange to have someone teach you the latest dances,” said Josephine decisively. “Vivienne cannot do it this time; she has not been spending enough time in Val Royeaux to be entirely up to date. But there will be someone.”

*           *           *

Cassandra, hearing about this later from a grumbling Trev, was thankful that she herself would not not be expected to have lessons. Everyone knew that the Right Hand of the Divine was an irritable, temperamental woman who disapproved of frivolity and frippery. Few ever asked her to dance, and no one would assume she would know the latest, most fashionable steps. In fact when she was younger she had quite enjoyed dancing occasionally, in the right situation and with the right partner; but at the Winter Palace dancing was primarily a strategic weapon in the Game, and she did not plan to dance there.

A few days later Cassandra went out on expedition with Bull, Solas, and Cole, and left the Inquisitor behind, still complaining. “I wish I could go with you,” Trev said glumly, “but apparently there are things that need my attention here in Skyhold, such as learning new dances. Well, next time I will not let them hold me.”

When Cassandra returned three weeks later, she left her horse with a groom and took the stairs up to the main level of the keep two at a time. She wanted to bathe and change, but even more than that, if she was honest with herself, she wanted to see Trev.

And there she was. But she was standing with her back to the stairs, peering up at the height of the towers. There was another woman with her, pointing, who stood with her profile to the Seeker. Cassandra remembered her. She had come in with a company of Orlesian fighters just before Cassandra left, an archer, small and delicate by comparison with the warriors with her, the fine bones of her pretty face standing out amongst all the coarse beards.

The woman reached out, linked her arm through Trev’s, pulling her closer, and said something to her. Trev turned her head to look at her; Cassandra could see her grin. She looked happy and relaxed.

Cassandra’s stomach knotted, a sick twisting of sudden pain and bile that made her feel nauseous. She abruptly did not want to see the Inquisitor at all. Well, it would be easy to avoid her, as Trev was looking in the other direction. She walked directly to the forge, and up the stairs to her loft, and methodically began to unpack her saddlebags. These things for the laundry. This for the midden. This needed repairing. This—this was a rune she had found in a ruin and kept, thinking to give it to Trev; the Inquisitor collected such things and sometimes had Dagna incorporate them into weapons. She looked at it for a moment, then carefully set it down on her table and carried on.

She had no right to feel rage. She had no right to feel possessive or territorial. She had no right even to feel annoyance. It was not as if she and Trev were lovers. They were friends, only friends.

She had no right.

What she _should_ be feeling was pleasure. She should be glad that Trev had found someone who made her happy. She had no claim on the Inquisitor, and should be glad for her happiness. The anger was inappropriate, and must be dealt with. She did not want to feel angry with Trev. She knew that she would be able to get the furious red claws and teeth that said _No_ and _Take your hands off_ and _Get out of here now, before I kill you_ under control, it was simply a matter of focus and determination.

There were quick steps on the stairs leading to her loft, and she pulled herself together.

“Cassandra!” said Trev cheerfully. “I was watching for you, but somehow I missed you coming through the yard.”

“You were talking to someone,” said Cassandra. “I did not want to interrupt.”

“Oh, that was Katrin,” said Trev. “We were arguing about how Sera gets from one side of the keep to the other without anyone seeing her. I think it’s on the roof, myself.”

 _I do not want to know anything about this woman_ , thought Cassandra. “Who is Katrin?”

Trev beamed happily, and Cassandra felt the thing coiled in her gut twist. “She is an old friend from Ostwick,” she said. “She is the one who is teaching me the dances. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

 _I’m sure I will not_ , thought Cassandra sullenly, as Trev began to ask her about the expedition’s accomplishments.

*           *           *

It had been a great delight, discovering that the person Leliana had recruited to teach her the newest dances was an old friend; Trev’s jaw had dropped, and of course Katrin, who had long since heard of first the Herald and then the Inquisitor and realized their acquaintance, had laughed and laughed. They had been playmates in Ostwick, against the wishes of Trev’s mother, but had not seen each other in years. Katrin’s father was an Orlesian noble; her mother was an upper servant sent to the Marches because of the disgrace of her pregnancy, and had found employment there with the Trevelyans. It was not appropriate, said Trev’s mother, for her daughter to play with the bastard of a servant. But that did not stop them. They found ways to meet and get into scrapes together, and eventually Trev’s mother had given up trying to keep them apart.

Katrin was wild and daring and a year older, and Trev worshipped her. But Katrin left when Trev was eight; her father’s wife had died without producing offspring, and he had decided to acknowledge her. She would never be other than a bastard, but as an acknowledged child she might be a backup if the lord did not marry again and sire children. And so she went to Val Royeaux, where she lived in the odd social space occupied by acknowledged bastards, was trained as an archer, and joined the Orlesian army.

And now she was here in Skyhold for a time, for her company had come to lend its support to the Inquisition. She was still wild and daring, but she was respected for her fighting skill and was happy with her life. Her father had married again and had four more children by the new wife, freeing her from the requirements of being an heir, which suited her inclinations. She had found a man that she liked, though by agreement they were not, she said, always faithful to each other, and had settled into a quasi-relationship that pleased her. She had a passion for dancing and the fashions and fripperies of the Orlesian court, an odd contrast with the work she did, but as she said, there was no reason one could not appreciate very different things in life. She was an excellent dance teacher, for she made the process of learning complicated steps fun. She was naturally physically affectionate and flirted with everyone; she flirted with Trev, though the Inquisitor was quite certain that she did not expect a response. “I think that perhaps,” said Katrin when Trev only laughed at a particularly direct proposition, “the Inquisitor’s eye has already settled on someone, hm? Ah well, I shall have to learn to live with my disappointment.” She had not seemed upset at all. Trev had laughed again and said nothing, and hoped that her friend was not quite as perceptive as she seemed.

Cassandra, for some reason, did not seem to like her, or at least had little to say to or about her. She had seemed even more taciturn and touchy than usual after returning from her latest expedition; Trev wondered if something had happened during her time away to disturb her. If so, she was evidently not prepared to discuss it.

Katrin for her part eyed the Seeker warily, with a combination of awed respect and disbelief: she was, after all the Hero of Orlais and the Right Hand of the Divine. “Is she always this silent and disapproving?” she said to Trev early on, her eyes laughing. “Does she intimidate dragons into submission by scowling at them?” But after she saw the Seeker sparring with Bull she had no more comments of that sort.

Cassandra came to one of the dance lessons, looking for Josephine, and stayed for a few minutes, watching. Katrin was teaching Trev how to lead in a particularly complex dance. The Inquisitor, distracted by the Seeker’s presence, missed a step and tripped over her own feet and fell into Katrin’s arms, and the archer laughed. “No, no, when you lead you are supposed to make maidens fall helplessly against _you_ , not the other way around! Not that it isn’t enjoyable to have your face plunging into my bosom—” she waggled an eyebrow suggestively “—but there is a _protocol_ for such things!”

By the time Trev extricated herself, laughing, Cassandra was gone. Well, it was not surprising; she was not at all fond of ribald joking. But the Inquisitor wished she had stayed. She might have found the courage to ask Cassandra to help her practice, as she had done with both Josephine and Leliana (Cullen had vehemently refused). And she liked to imagine that if she had been articulate and persuasive enough Cassandra might even have agreed, though she had to admit to herself that it was most improbable.

*           *           *

Katrin’s company was given orders for the Exalted Plains and departed shortly before the Inquisition party left for the anniversary ball. Cassandra watched Trev carefully afterwards, and thought that she seemed quieter than she had been. Well. To have a lover leave was a sad thing, certainly. But she could not stop herself from feeling a certain lightening of her own heart. It had been hard, to have the presence of another remind her so emphatically of what she could not have.

No, be honest. It was hard to be reminded of what she could not have. But it had been like claws in her guts to know that Trev had taken a lover. 

The lessons had been a great success in preparing Trev for the ball; she accounted well for herself there. Cassandra, watching her, had to admit that she had become an excellent dancer, whether leading or following. And her formal uniform made her look imposing, romantic. She had not noticed that at the Winter Palace, but she noticed it now. She wondered what it would be like to dance with Trev; to feel the Inquisitor’s firm hands prompting, leading, or to feel Trev mirror her movements, to soften against her.

It would be better not to think of such things.

Late that night, the Inquisitor came to join her on the balcony she had retreated to, wanting air and fewer people. Trev, who had been bright and cheerful all evening, had begun to look tired. “Josephine tells me that I must be seen for another half hour,” she said, “and I shall never be so glad to leave a dance. At least last time we had assassinations to deal with. This time it’s simply the Game, and that’s much worse.”

Cassandra, still aching from the thought of what Trev’s body would feel like against hers, managed a half smile. “You have managed to seduce the Orlesians with the expertise of your dancing, so I suppose from Josephine’s point of view the time was not entirely wasted.”

“I have no interest in seducing Orlesians,” said Trev brusquely. Cassandra blinked. She had meant it as a joke. The Inquisitor must be very tired indeed, to respond so seriously.

Trev stood near the balustrade, fidgeting. “Cassandra,” she said finally, “would you—”

“Inquisitor!” said Josephine, approaching. “You have been missed. Count Leon has asked for you; you agreed to reserve at least one dance for him tonight.”

Trev stood very still for a moment, then said, “Of course,” tonelessly, and turned to follow the Ambassador into the Grand Hall. She hated the thought of another dance, Cassandra thought, and admired her fortitude in accepting its necessity.

Leliana, coming out onto the balcony, passed them, and gave the Inquisitor a considering glance; Cassandra wondered what expression was on Trev’s face to draw her attention. “Well,” said the spymaster, “the evening has been a success in most things. Although no one has managed to convince you to dance, Cassandra?”

“I have no interest in playing the Game, as you know perfectly well, Leliana,” said the Seeker. “And that is all that is going on here.”

“Oh,” said Leliana, “there is always more than that. But it will keep for another time.”

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_Here the trope of jealousy is finally explored more seriously. There are a number of sub-variants of this theme. This chapter blends two of them: the Seeker is envious and angry, but takes no violent action against either the object of her affections or the interloper; she is self-sacrificing in that she does nothing to hamper the supposed romance of the Inquisitor, though she does nothing to encourage it. Trevelyan, on the other hand, is motivated by the closeness of the dancing—a metaphor for sexual closeness—to finally reach out to the Seeker, another common trope, but is thwarted by the unconscious actions of a companion in a way that is more usual in comedy than in romance._

_The common thread through all of the tropes explored in the story is the thwarting of expectations: those of the reader, those of the protagonists. Our characters primarily derail their own opportunities because of their false beliefs and expectations, which is in itself a trope that is almost ritualistic in its denouement. But in this case our expectations as readers are thwarted too: none of the themes plays out in quite the way we are led to expect. Varric Tethras was a master of setting up expectations and then subverting them in his writing; the presence of this technique is suggestive._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_It is obvious that it is not just the author of this manuscript who is aging, deranged, and unwillingly celibate. The writer finally settled on a theme that is realistic and provides the basis for many classic stories—jealousy—but failed to explore it with any depth of understanding, and grants it no more standing as a motivator than the other pathetic clichés employed. Where are the passionate declarations, the violence, the murders and betrayals, the heroic sacrifices? The plot is insipid, the characters are unconvincing, sullen and unattractive. No wonder the work was never published at the time of writing; it should be an embarrassment to any author. It should be an embarrassment to any academic to think of commenting seriously on the frivolous and incompetently written material found in popular literature._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_LETTER TO PROF. T. LARKIN:_

_Contrary to your sense of propriety, there is rich scholarship available in the area of popular literature; given that your primary area of study is on the use of bardic rhyme schemes in provincial Fereldan puppet theatre, it is possible that the necessity of teaching has limited your time for the wider reading that would lead to this awareness. I have been fortunate that the sales of my critically acclaimed biography on Tethras have provided me with the freedom to explore such works extensively._

_—Eleanor du Barry_


	9. The Nightingale

Cassandra and Leliana had taken meals together regularly when they stood as Right and Left Hands, but rarely since. There had been too many things to do, in those first chaotic days. And afterwards they were even busier; for the most part the two of them ate with Josephine and Cullen at the War Table, never breaking from their work. Likely the advisors still did so from time to time, although there was less pressure, less urgency since they found Skyhold; but Cassandra did not join them. Her job there was done. She had declared the Inquisition, and now they had an Inquisitor, and she was not needed on the Council. She had withdrawn gratefully.

But she had enjoyed those collegial meals, and missed them. Now for the most part she ate at a general table in the refectory, or alone in her loft, or sometimes with a friend or two at the tavern. Each had its advantages, but none were quite the same as a private meal with a friend and colleague of equal status, where everything could be discussed frankly and openly.

And so when Leliana had invited her to dine privately, she had accepted with pleasure. The first part of the evening had been thoroughly enjoyable. Leliana had spoken of policy and planning as if Cassandra was still an advisor, demonstrating a flattering level of trust. They had a vehement and very enjoyable argument about some details of a question relating to Templars. The spymaster had chatted about the Inquisitor’s companions in an amusing, low-key way, talking about various adventures and incidents that they had encountered, in the process making it plain that her knowledge of each of them and their activities was comprehensive. But it was not unkind or gratuitously gossipy, and Cassandra had enjoyed the conversation, and the excellent wine that Leliana had provided. Considerably more wine than she usually drank, to be sure—by late in the evening she had begun to feel distinctly tipsy—but she was safe with a friend within Skyhold.

Or so she had thought. Now she was beginning to think that the privacy that allowed all subjects to be discussed might not be such a benefit after all, and to feel that she had walked into a carefully set snare.

It had started simply enough. “I imagine that you were glad when Duke de Freyen finally left,” said the spymaster. “I have rarely met a noble with such an inflated sense of self-importance.”

Cassandra let out a sound that was perhaps more expressive that it would have been if she had not had so much to drink. “If he had stayed much longer he might have stayed permanently, in a grave,” she said feelingly.

“Well, it is not surprising that he left, after seeing your embrace with the Inquisitor,” said Leliana. “It was very convincing. It would have fooled me, if I had not known better.”

“The Inquisitor said that we must do it properly, if we did it,” said Cassandra stiffly, knowing that she was flushing and resenting it.

“I don’t know if _proper_ would actually be the right word. It looked very improper indeed.” There was a teasing note in Leliana’s voice. “Was it truly as passionate as it looked? Were Sera’s predictions fulfilled?”

Cassandra gaped at her. “No! Of course not! I—she—it was a performance, nothing more! She did not—she did nothing!”

“Well,” said Leliana reflectively, “‘nothing’ is perhaps a questionable choice of word as well. I am certain that you would do nothing improper in such a situation. But the Inquisitor has a playful side that is sometimes inappropriate; one can never be sure what she might choose to do when tempted by a beautiful woman.”

Cassandra sputtered, wordless.

Leliana seemed not to notice. “In any case, I did not know you had such acting skills, Cassandra,” she said. “I should have thought it would be difficult for you to kiss someone you do not care about, or at least to do so convincingly.”

“I do care about her,” said Cassandra recklessly. Then, realizing what that sounded like, “She is my friend.” Feeling obscurely that Trev’s honour had been impugned, she added, “She is a good woman. She cares about—about all of us. She is kind, and honourable. She wanted to help me, because we are friends. She would do nothing that would distress me. She only wanted to help, because she is kind.” She was repeating herself. She grunted in frustration, unable to find the words. Could Leliana not understand that Trev was honourable, so much better than the spymaster’s cynicism suggested? That she drew others to her because of who she was? “She cares for others, and we return that affection. She is _good_ ,” she said again, finally. “Who would not love her?”

There was a pause. “And have you told her that you love her?” said Leliana, watching her.

Cassandra sat transfixed, a deer blinded by the light of a night-hunter. Why had she never noticed how predatory Leliana could look? She could not think of what to say. Her head was thick and foolish with wine.

She looked at her hands, twisted together in her lap. She should have laughed, and she had not. She should have laughed, and said, _What nonsense, can you not tell when I am speaking of the love between friends, between sisters?_ And she had not. And if she did so now, Leliana would not believe her.

“No,” she said.

“Perhaps you should,” said Leliana. “She has shown interest—”

“That was long ago,” said Cassandra. “She does not feel the same way now.”

“Are you so certain?”

Cassandra looked up. “As certain as I am of anything in life.” She felt very tired, and far more sober than she had a few moments ago.

“I think,” said Leliana, “that I do not agree with you.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten about her Orlesian _friend_ ,” said Cassandra.

Leliana blinked. “Katrin? Did you think that they were lovers? I can assure you that they are not.”

They were not? Could it be true? Leliana was the Inquisition’s spymaster, and her eyes saw everything; she would know. She felt a glimmer of hope, and squashed it violently.

But it threw her into confusion, made her feel uncertain, and that made her angry. “Why are we even talking about this? Is this why you arranged this meal together? So that you could give me too much wine and trick me into saying—”

“I provided the wine,” said Leliana, “but I did not force you to drink it. That is your own responsibility, I am afraid. But I will admit to wanting to provoke you into an admission.”

Cassandra stared, furious and burning with mortification. She had begun to realize just what Leliana had done. “The kiss—that whole performance—you proposed it. It was your idea. What were you trying to provoke there? Is there _anything_ you will not meddle with?” She was shouting.

“Very little,” said Leliana calmly, “when I see foolishness and unhappiness around me. We have known each other for too long for me not to recognize it when you fall in love,” —here Cassandra groaned and buried her face in her hands— “even if the Inquisitor is unaware of it.”

“She must stay that way,” said Cassandra, her voice muffled. She could not bear this. She took her hands away from her face, stood, and began to walk to the door, then stopped and turned back. “Leliana, please... do not say anything to her.”

There was a long silence. Finally the spymaster said, “I will not say anything, Cassandra. I think that is up to you to do.” Then, as the Seeker turned to open the door and leave, “But if you are so certain that she feels nothing for you... ask her why she has taken no lover since ceasing the attentions she paid to you earlier.”

*           *           *

Leliana was mistaken. Leliana was a meddling fool. Leliana did not know the first thing about Cassandra, or Trev, or what was or was not between them. Leliana was—

Cassandra, alone in her loft, stared at the wall, feeling as if a yawning pit had opened beneath her. Leliana was a woman whose business was observing and understanding other people’s business. She watched and interpreted. She was not infallible, but she was most often right in her estimations of people.

She was afraid of how badly she wanted to believe that Leliana was right in this. There was something that unfurled when she thought of Trev, something warm and tender and fierce, something that demanded and insisted and would not let go.

Leliana had set a cat amongst the pigeons of her certainty. She had thought Trev’s original interest in her only physical, nothing serious, a fleeting thing, long gone; but if that had been so why had she not found someone else to satisfy those needs? She clearly liked Katrin very much, and the woman was extremely attractive; if she only wanted release, why had she not taken her up on her flirting?

There were moments since her refusal of the Inquisitor’s advances that could have, _might_ have indicated some interest on Trev’s part. There had been, when she thought about it carefully, a great many. But every one of them was ambiguous and had a perfectly logical, perfectly unromantic explanation. She could not make assumptions. But how could she know the truth of it? She could not act on uncertainty. She could not.

If she did not act on uncertainty, she thought then, with a sinking feeling, there was likely no possibility of anything ever happening. She had made it clear to Trev all those many months ago that she could not accept the affections of a woman. Even if the Inquisitor truly wanted more than friendship, why would Trev think she had changed, if she did not say something?

Everything between them could be understood in more than one way. But Trev would only see what Cassandra had so clearly directed her to see. She would not act. There were moments when she could have, and did not. Cassandra thought of that morning when she had woken from a dream of sensual pleasure, of mouths and hands and bodies moving together, Trev’s hands and mouth and body moving against hers, and allowed the dream to carry into waking before she comprehended properly that the person entwined with her was not part of a dream. She had never been quite certain that Trev had been asleep then. But she had behaved as if she was, and had said nothing, and Cassandra in her embarrassment had been grateful for the pretence, if that was what it was. Whatever else the lack of response indicated, at the time it had certainly seemed to confirm a lack of interest.

But Trev would not respond, if she thought Cassandra was not attracted to women and only dreaming, unaware of what she was doing. She would do nothing to make Cassandra uncomfortable.

If Trev had wanted more than simple physical release she would have been hurt by the Seeker’s rejection, and would have done her best to hide it. If Trev thought that Cassandra could not love a woman, she would not want Cassandra to know that she still cared. If Trev thought that there was no hope, she would do everything in her power to make Cassandra think that she was not interested, even if she was. She would do her best to make sure that any caring shown was only that expected of a friend.

If Trev cared...

It was late, and she was tired, and not thinking clearly. She would think about this in the morning. But when she lay in her bed she could not sleep. She got up again and dressed, and walked through darkness to the chapel, and knelt before the statue of Andraste and prayed. When grey light began to seep through the windows, she rose, stiff and aching. She was even more tired, and her mind had not settled.

 _I do not know what to do_ , she thought.

But she did.

*           *           *

_FROM LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_And finally the crisis approaches, driven not by the tropes of romance but by the words of a clear-sighted friend—another trope, in itself. The onus of revealing the truth of the emotional attachment has now firmly and unexpectedly been placed on the shoulders of a protagonist._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_There is a narrative disjunction in this that simply cannot be ignored. The author has shamelessly pandered to the reader’s expectations, a rhetorical deception that is repeatedly established, only to subvert them for no reason other than to provide a plot twist which is, frankly, both unbelievable and ineffective. A narrative should have dramatic pacing that establishes a constantly rising tension, with one moment of relaxation, and then tension again, lifting the reader with them to the final denouement. This manuscript has created tension again and again, raising the reader’s expectations, only to deflate them, and then in the penultimate scenes uses a contrived situation with no dramatic potential whatsoever. The narrative structure is simultaneously predictable and incompetent. One might expect an appreciative commentary on it from a green graduate student looking to shock her way into the upper echelons of scholarly discourse, but it ill-becomes someone who is supposedly an established professor of literature, however dubious the area of study._

_Furthermore, it is absolutely incomprehensible that the Inquisition’s spymaster, a woman known to be cold and calculating, would interfere in personal relationships between high-ranking members of the Inquisition._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_For someone who despises the genre, Professor Larkin is strangely susceptible to the most predictable of its tropes and the way they are expected to play out. And it seems that he is particularly offended by a structure of narrative release that takes time to unfold before offering the satisfaction of completion; evidently he is capable of appreciating only stories leading to a quick dramatic climax. This may be satisfactory for some, but others prefer a more leisurely approach to achieving the pleasure of a satisfactory ending._

_As for the spymaster, one would think that the Professor would be aware of the Nightingale’s history, as recorded by more than one writer: she travelled with the Hero of Fereldan when she was younger and at that time had a very different, gentler character. It is possible that he is not capable of conceptualizing a character of more than one dimension, but that does not mean that they do not exist._

_—Eleanor du Barry_


	10. The Conversation

Trev was on the battlements above the seldom-used stairway when the Seeker found her, contemplating the spread of Skyhold below, and leaned beside her. “Are you surveying your domain, Inquisitor?”

Trev rolled her eyes. “ _My_ domain? I can’t claim ownership of all this chaos,” she said. “But it has begun to turn into something.”

“It is far different than it was when we arrived,” Cassandra said.

“Yes,” said the Inquisitor. “Sometimes I forget how much we have accomplished.”

“It is more than I expected,” said the Seeker. “More than I could conceive of. But then, there were many things that have happened that I could not conceive of. I would not have believed that I would find myself working with a Tevinter mage, or a Ben-Hassrath agent, or a street urchin... yet here we all are, comrades and in some cases friends.”

Trev grinned. “We are a rag-tag bunch, to be sure. I think it is one of our strengths.”

“Trev,” said Cassandra slowly, and then hesitated, frowning. The Inquisitor looked at her, puzzled; the Seeker looked very tired, and there was something in her voice that Trev could not identify. After a moment, Cassandra said, “I misjudged several of our companions badly. I was led by my own prejudices, my own expectations. And I have come to believe that I misjudged you as well.”

Trev blinked. “What do you mean?”

There was another pause. “When you flirted with me, months ago, I thought that your intentions were like those of the Iron Bull. That it was casual, that you only wanted...” She trailed off, then said briskly, “I think that I may have hurt you. I wanted to say that I am sorry.”

Trev swallowed. “There is no reason to be sorry,” she said, finally. “You can’t help who you are or are not attracted to.”

There was a silence.

“No,” said Cassandra finally. “But I can be sorry for being a blind fool.”

Trev, leaning on the battlements, rested her chin on her clasped hands, hiding her mouth behind her fingers, hoping that her expression could not be read. This was really, really _not_ a conversation that she wanted to have, with Cassandra apologizing for not noticing the depth of her affection. What could she possibly say? _Well, yes, I had in fact fallen madly in love with you. Unfortunately I have never fallen out of love with you. There it is, can’t be helped, sorry to embarrass you_.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, hoping that this would end the subject.

But it did not. Cassandra, it seemed, had something more on her mind, and was scowling rather fearsomely. “We live in difficult times, with so much pain and horror. And you—you must bear more than most. So many of our friends have found comfort in each other... Why have you not taken a lover?”

“I...” said Trev, her mind gone entirely blank, “I haven’t wanted anyone.” She hoped that the “else” did not resound as loudly in Cassandra’s head as in her own. She could not believe that she was having this conversation with the Seeker. She wanted it to _end_. She wanted it to end before Cassandra asked her something she could not avoid answering without lying.

But evidently the Seeker was not about to let it go. Her gaze was fixed on her own hands, folded together on the stone, and she seemed thoroughly uncomfortable, which made Trev feel utterly terrified. “When the Duke—when you—when we performed for the Duke and you kissed me, I—I felt great tenderness in your kiss. I— Was it all pretence? Or was there something more than friendship?”

 _Oh, Maker_. This was what she had dreaded. She could not evade a direct question. She could lie, but she would not lie to Cassandra. “It was friendship,” she said with difficulty, staring determinedly at the masonry of the wall opposite and not the other woman, “and more.” Then, “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—” She trailed off.

“I did not say it made me uncomfortable,” said Cassandra, lifting her head. “Not as you mean it.”

Trev stared at her. She could not possibly mean—

“I will admit to disturbance, though,” said Cassandra. “Of a particular kind.”

She meant it.

Probably. It was entirely possible that she had misunderstood.

Trev opened her mouth and found herself wordless. She had almost certainly misunderstood. Cassandra had said that she could not love a woman. She had been very clear about it. But if she had changed... Trev was shaking with suppressed... something. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to seize Cassandra and kiss her senseless, or run. She wrapped her hands around her ribs and held herself tightly, trying to still the trembling, but it was no good. And Cassandra, always observant, would be bound to notice. It was ridiculous that she could not control her own body.

And then Cassandra put out her arms, gripped Trev’s shoulders, and slowly and carefully turned her away from the battlements and pushed. Trev backed up, her legs feeling like they would give out at any moment, beyond thinking. Her back hit a wall. Cassandra released her, but her arms still bracketed the Inquisitor, hands flat against the stone to either side of her shoulders. Her expression was focused and intense. Her brow was still knotted, but she was not scowling now; Trev had learned how to tell the difference. The sounds of the hold seemed very far away. Trev could hear the faint rustle of cloth, the creak of leather. There were birds singing somewhere in the distance.

Cassandra let out a breath. They stared at each other. And then Cassandra took one hand off the wall and cupped Trev’s jaw. For once she was not wearing gauntlets. Her fingers were hard and calloused and very slightly shaking. Her touch was gentle. Her thumb moved a little on Trev’s cheek, very slowly. “May I?” she said.

Trev reached out and put her hands on Cassandra’s hips, feeling the solid, indubitable realness of her. “Yes,” she said faintly.

It was like the last time, and it was not. Cassandra had wrapped arms around her, a little awkwardly; the armour made it more difficult. Leliana had been right about that. Trev's own arms were around the Seeker’s waist. Cassandra’s lips on hers were still warm, still soft, touching lightly, repeatedly, and then moving across her cheek to the line of her jaw and down her neck. She felt them brush her throat, and shuddered, and felt Cassandra’s arms tighten.

This time it was not a performance. It was real. The thought tumbled through her mind, smashing everything sideways. She could not think. She dropped her head, twisting till she was able to nuzzle into Cassandra’s neck, press lips and tongue against it, taste her skin. Cassandra exhaled hard. And then she was kissing along Cassandra’s jaw, trying to find her mouth, yes, here, and this time there was no holding back. She teased and tasted and pressed her hips against the Seeker’s. And Cassandra—Cassandra's weight pinned her against the wall, and Cassandra had pushed one hard-muscled thigh between her legs, and Cassandra kissed her with a thoroughness that demonstrated a clear familiarity with the entire process. 

Cassandra. There was nothing else.

Neither of them had steady breathing when they broke and looked at each other. After a moment Trev said a little shakily, “I want to court you. I want to bring you flowers and wine and the heads of your enemies and the clouds in early morning. I want to write bad poetry for you, and read you every word. I also want to take you to bed. But if you want to go more slowly...”

“I think we have gone slowly enough,” said Cassandra, hoarsely, “though I would like to be courted by you.” Her hands had come to rest clutching Trev's collar. She took a deep breath. “But it is only halfway through the day, and we both have duties.”

Trev shut her eyes and made a sound of infinite frustration. “And even if I shut my door and lock it, they will come knocking. Yes.” She opened her eyes and reached up to cup Cassandra’s face in her hands. “Will you come to me, when this thrice-damned day is over?” She felt the corners of the Seeker’s mouth move against her palms.

“I will,” said Cassandra, and leaned forward to kiss her again, briefly and gently this time, and then smiled in a way Trev had never seen, a private, _happy_ smile, and walked away.

*           *           *

Cassandra locked the door of the Inquisitor’s quarters behind her, and walked up the stairs, feeling a little light-headed and extremely nervous. The candles cast a flickering light around the room, and the fire glowed warm and welcoming. Trev was—ah.

Trev was sound asleep, curled in a ball on the settee, hair disheveled and one fist tucked under her cheek, the now-gangly Handful tucked against her belly. The kitten raised her head and gave a gentle _mrrp_ as she approached.

The warm, tender thing unfurled in Cassandra again, pushing aside the nervousness. She toed off her boots and set her jerkin on a chest. And then she padded across the room and dropped to her knees beside the settee and simply looked at Trev’s face for a little while, listening to her breathe. And finally she leaned forward and kissed her cheek, very lightly, very delicately, and then, very slowly, towards her mouth. Handful, whose space had abruptly been compressed, made a grumbling protest and was abruptly gone.

Trev made a little sighing sound, and then the faintest of smiles tugged the corner of her mouth, but she did not open her eyes. But when Cassandra’s lips got close to hers, she unfolded the fingers of her hand and caught the Seeker’s collar, and tried to catch Cassandra’s lips with her own. But Cassandra resisted, kissing back along the jaw and down the line of Trev’s throat, and Trev shivered and then finally opened her eyes. “Where are my flowers and poetry?” she murmured. “Surely the woman who enjoys romance so much will bring flowers and poetry with her kisses? And sweets. Let’s not forget sweets, the kitchen had apple tarts today, and Josephine received some chocolates in a special order. You’re down on your knees, so that’s a good start, but—”

And then Cassandra uncoiled, coming to her feet, and heaved, and the Inquisitor went over one shoulder with a squawk.

It was only a few steps to the bed, and by the time Cassandra reached it Trev was giggling uncontrollably. The Seeker dropped her onto the mattress in one efficient movement. Trev, laughing, said, “I am certain that no one would believe that the Seeker would do something so—so improper and impulsive and _lusty_.”

Cassandra was still leaning over her, hands resting on the mattress to either side. “The fact that I love romance,” she said seriously, “does not mean that I do not enjoy passion.”

*           *           *

The Seeker was not in her usual armour, only a linen shirt and breeches. Trev could see the muscles of her arms and shoulders outlined where they pulled against the cloth, and thought of the strength and power in them, lifting her, and suddenly all the laughter went out of her, and she was finding it hard to breathe.

“Cassandra,” she managed, and reached, and pulled her down.

She had imagined what it would be like to make love to Cassandra; of course she had. She loved making love to women, she had experience with making love to women, and the Seeker did not. Of course she would make love to Cassandra, should there ever be a first time. Of course it would be her hands, her mouth, the length of her body pressing down over her lover. Of course.

She was a fool.

She had failed, somehow, to imagine that Cassandra, who might have had only one lover and that male, might still understand passion and the desires of a woman’s body. She had failed, ridiculously, to imagine that Cassandra might be the one to reach out, to set hands on her, to kiss her, to touch her. She had failed, foolishly, to imagine that Cassandra might be the one whose mouth teased, whose hands touched with surety, exploring, wanting, needing. She had failed, impossibly, to remember that once Cassandra committed to a thing she gave herself to it absolutely.

She had failed to take into account Cassandra’s courage.

When the weight of Cassandra’s body pressed hers down, all thought evaporated. There was only the solidity of another body against hers where she had so often imagined it. The hard bars of strong arms bracketing her. The softness of breasts against her own. The legs tangling together, the feeling of hips against hers, heavy and intensely present. Her mind went blank. Her arms were around the Seeker, holding her close, wanting her closer. She could not get enough air, and it was not because of Cassandra’s weight over her. Her hips jerked, pushing desperately up against Cassandra; she could not have stopped their movement if she tried.

Cassandra had slipped one hand under her neck to cradle the back of her head, shifting her weight onto that elbow, and was kissing her with a thoroughness and attention that dissolved her ability to think of anything beyond the heat within and against her. The other hand had begun to explore. There was nothing tentative about that exploration; quite the contrary. It moved with a certainty that was arousingly unexpected, sliding under her shirt and over her ribs, sliding upward. She could feel Cassandra’s palm through the fabric of her breastband, then, moving gently. She moaned into Cassandra’s mouth, and the Seeker gave a small impatient grunt and forced the breastband aside and—.

 _Oh, Maker_ , she thought blasphemously. _Don’t let her stop_.

The lips on her breast moved lazily, tongue teasing at her nipple. She knotted her hands in Cassandra’s hair and hazily wondered whether the other woman would be unnerved if she shrieked. _I should have known; she said to me once that when she sees what needs doing, she does it, and does not hold back. It is how she does everything she does_.

Cassandra’s approach to making love to her was not tentative, but it was enquiring. _Is this good? Do you like this?_ And if the enquiry was answered affirmatively, there was no hesitation in following up. Trev, desperately aroused and wanting more touch, more skin, finally began to pull off her own clothes, something the Seeker was distractingly enthusiastic about helping with; and then they got Cassandra out of her clothes as well.

Skin on skin, shifting, moving. A body above hers, weighting her down, hips slowly moving against hers. A mouth on hers, teasing, teasing. It was too much, and she had wanted, needed it, for far too long. Her mind was hazed with lust; she had lost all agency, and could only respond to her lover's touch, her hips rocking, her hands desperately wrapping around Cassandra to pull her close. And when Cassandra's hand finally slipped between her legs, found wetness, hesitated for a split second and then moved assertively to touch her _there_ , she made a strangled sound that was like a cry of pain, and the Seeker stopped what she was doing, startled, and she said through gritted teeth, “Maker, _please_ ,” and the hand moved again, fingers sliding against her, a slow, smooth, intense rhythm, and that was that: she whispered, “Cassandra,” and came hard and fast, rigid and violently shuddering.

She couldn’t move. She might never move again; every muscle in her body had gone loose and helpless. Still trying to catch her breath, she was vaguely aware of the weight above her shifting to one side, and then arms were pulling her, and she was bonelessly following. When she eventually opened her eyes it was to find herself half sprawled over the Seeker, head on Cassandra’s shoulder.

Somehow she had failed, utterly, to imagine that Cassandra, usually taciturn and restrained, might be the one to whisper awkward, fractured endearments, running a hand slowly up and down her back, and the effect they would have on her. Her heart felt as if it would batter its way out of her chest with love.

“I think I’ve been here before,” she said, meaning in her dreams, but Cassandra’s hand stilled for a moment.

“And were you awake, then?” she said, a with note of slightly apprehensive curiosity, and Trev abruptly realized what she was talking about.

“I—yes,” she said, moving her head to look at her lover.

“I had hoped that you were not,” said Cassandra, who had turned very pink.

“I assumed you were dreaming,” said Trev simply.

“I was,” said Cassandra, and grew noticably pinker. Trev stared, with dawning delight.

“About me?”

“Yes,” admitted Cassandra. “Ugh. I was—I did a great deal of dreaming about you, if you must know.” Trev grinned widely, beaming, and Cassandra smacked her gently. “Do not let it go to your head.”

“I have a right to be pleased about it,” said Trev, pushing herself up on one elbow. “I thought it was all one-sided. I thought—” and then she narrowed her eyes. “What exactly was I doing in this dream?”

Cassandra flushed even harder, if it was possible, and smacked her less gently, and Trev began to laugh. “You are incorrigible!” said the Seeker. “And I have no intention of answering that question.”

“Well then,” said Trev, waggling one eyebrow, “I shall have to work it out through a process of elimination.” And set about doing so.

*           *           *

Cassandra had never made love to a woman, and although her reading had given her a good sense of what to expect and her experience with her own body gave her confidence in knowing what would give pleasure, when she had thought about it during that interminable day—as how could she not? —she had vaguely assumed that the first time they lay together the Inquisitor would take the lead. But then Trev had pulled her down and clung to her with such helpless need that she could do nothing but answer. Could do nothing but touch and kiss, with mouth and hands and every part of her body that she could press against her lover, to _give_ , to give everything she could. And then to feel Trev respond to every touch, every kiss, with an intensity that said she could do nothing else.... She wanted to give her the world, and more.

But now, now it was Trev’s hands, Trev’s mouth, and the shivering arousal she had forced aside while pleasing her lover roared to life again. It had been a long time since she had been touched by another. Far too long. It had been a long time since she had felt lips and tongue slide across her skin, since hands roamed to touch her everywhere. It had been a long time since a mouth found her breast, and teased. It had been a long time since hands slid across her ribs, over the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. She remembered the arousal, but had made herself forget the tenderness, the slow, loving exploration that undid her far more than desire ever could. Arousal was simple; this—this was not.

And then Trev slid lower, and kissed the inside of her thigh, and her stomach tightened. This was not something that had not been done in far too long; this was something that had not been done at all. She and Galyan had been adventurous to a degree, but they had been very young, and there were some possibilities she had not been aware of. 

Trev had stopped moving. “All right?” she said, looking up.

“Yes,” Cassandra managed. It was not discomfort that had made her tense so abruptly, and although there was some uncertainty in facing the unknown, some embarrassment, she was very certain indeed that she did not want Trev to stop.

Trev gave her a smile, a smile that was gentle and fierce and _wanting_ all at the same time, and reached up to clasp her hands, and lowered her head again.

 _Maker_. Her hands clenched hard, and it must have been painful, for Trev shifted her grip so that they clasped wrists instead of fingers.

Then there was nothing but Trev’s mouth, her clever lips and tongue, and what they were doing between her legs. Long, slow strokes. Little flicks and swirls and quick teasing. A thrusting pressure. A gentle sucking. A focused attention _here_ , and now _there_.

And every time Cassandra began to find the rhythm, to rise to it, her breath stuttering, she changed what she was doing.

Her lover, it seemed, was a tease.

But Cassandra _needed_ , and finally it tore an intensely frustrated growl from her. And then Trev stopped teasing and focused her attention, and oh, _oh_. And this time when Cassandra’s breath shortened and caught, Trev did not stop, and when Cassandra’s hips began to rock she only adjusted her position slightly, and did not stop. And soon Cassandra could not stop, maddened and rising to the inexorable pulse of her desire, anchored by the grip of Trev’s hands, holding her steady and setting her free.

Afterwards, when Trev had crawled up to lie tangled together with her, head tucked into the crook of her shoulder, she sighed, and remembering what the Inquisitor had said when they kissed earlier on the battlements, said, “That is far better than bad poetry.”

She could feel Trev smile against her neck. “I’m glad you think so.”

And then, suddenly, Cassandra was struck by a thought. “Do you really write poetry?”

The Inquisitor tensed. “I—I have been known to, on occasion. But it is truly very bad. I would not want anyone else to see it.”

The answer was interestingly evasive. “Did you,” said Cassandra carefully, shifting to watch her face, “write poetry in the end pages of a very old book on weaponry in the old library in the cellars?”

Trev did not often blush, and when she did it was rarely more than a slight flushing, a level of control Cassandra envied. But this—this was spectacular. “I didn’t—” said the Inquisitor hurriedly, “You can’t—” And then she visibly deflated and buried her face in Cassandra’s shoulder and groaned. “Yes.”

“It is not so bad,” said Cassandra. “It—”

“You clearly have no taste whatsoever,” said Trev, but she raised her head and began to look marginally less embarrassed.

“Perhaps not,” said Cassandra gently, “but the words spoke of loving, despite having no hope. They were a great comfort to me when I thought that you did not return my feelings.”

Trev shut her eyes. “I love you,” she said. “But if you have read my poetry, you know that.” She opened her eyes and looked at the Seeker then. “I—I could not say those things to you. But I had to say them, somehow.”

“Those words,” said Cassandra quietly, “they were fierce. They were passionate. They spoke for me when there were things I did not know how to say. That I was afraid to say. I returned to them again and again, because of that.”

Trev reached up a hand to touch her face. “Can you say them now?”

“ _I could love you_ ,” said Cassandra simply, “ _and I do_. I do not know if you know how much, and I am not good with words, to explain. That is all I can say. I love you.”

“That is everything you need to say,” said Trev, and kissed her.

*           *           *

_LETTERS TO JT KIRKLAND:_

_And of course, the final insertion of gratuitous sex is a requirement of genre fiction; presumably it is intended as a distraction from the quality of the writing._

_—Thos. Larkin_

_It seems that Professor Larkin, as a confirmed bachelor, lacks the ability to distinguish between mechanical sex and the physical expression of affection. If one is only capable of conceiving of sex in the context of inexpertly and indescriminately rutting like a druffalo with anything that moves, of course, it is not likely that one would understand romance._

_—Eleanor du Barry_

_LETTER FROM SER ABUTHNOT FORTHINGHAM TO PROFESSOR DU BARRY:_

_Professor du Barry: I take pleasure in introducing myself as the friend of Professor Thomas Larkin of the University of Fereldan. Professor Larkin will be attending a conference in Val Royeaux and requests your presence at Scarling Field at dawn on the nineteenth day of Ferventis. You are also requested to name a second in order that arrangements may be formally confirmed. The choice of weapons is yours._

_— On behalf of Professor Thomas Edgar Philliam Larkin,  
_ _Ser Abuthnot Forthingham_

_SCRIBBLED NOTE, ADDENDUM: Name your champion. I’ll see you at dawn. —L_

_LETTER FROM SER ROLAND DEGAS TO SER ABUTHNOT FORTHINGHAM:_

_Ser Abuthnot: Professor du Barry accepts your invitation with pleasure, and will appear at the stated time. As a weapon she chooses burlap sacks filled with the pages of each of the published works of the respective authors. It is noted that only one copy of each work may be used, and the material may not in any way be otherwise padded, even if that is the normal practice of the party._

_— On behalf of Professor Eleanor Katarina Constanzia Desirée du Barry,  
_ _Ser Roland Degas_

 _SCRIBBLED NOTE, ADDENDUM: Oh, you are a romantic after all. How sweet!_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So as one might expect, various tropes and clichés float around in my head saying write me! because that's what they do. I've made notes on how a number of them might play out; quite a few have been hanging about for a long time. Sometimes I give in to them, sometimes I don't; generally if I do I try to find a way to work them into a more complicated story.
> 
> But sometimes I just want to wallow, because they're FUN.
> 
> Recently I've been working on a piece for the Trev/Cassandra story arc that's kind of complicated and emotionally challenging (surprise!) and I wanted a holiday from it. I should write something for fun, I thought. And I have an endless supply of tropey how-they-got-together story ideas.
> 
> So I started writing it. And it WAS fun. (It's not written in Varric's style, obviously; I didn't even try. So likely Larkin is actually right on that count.) 
> 
> Now that the whole thing is posted I can add my thankyous. 
> 
> I decided to introduce a random element, so I asked people to suggest words for the story, without their having any idea what it was about. I got some doozies, and every one of those words was incorporated into Trev's bad poetry, with one change in tense. So many thanks to thieving hippo (copper), lecriteuse (crepuscular, inaugural, simmering), cassandrapentagay (branded, seething, perverse), primeeightslate (ambivalent), dahllaz (voracious), and anon (conspicuous). 
> 
> I'm not sure I should thank birdcrimez for "cloaca," but I managed to get it in there!
> 
> I was having so much fun with that that I thought, okay, how many tropes can I actually shoehorn into this? So I went for that as well, and started outlining one after another. Then I asked people to suggest more, because hey, maybe I could work in more. Many of the suggestions I received were already in the story, but I got more good ideas to work with. So thanks for those to: birdcrimez (sharing a blanket); lecriteuse (surprise jealousy, role reversal, being teased till they snap while not realizing the other is overhearing); dahllaz (zip me up)
> 
> And... sorry, lecriteuse, but that was as close as I could go to sex pollen without risking my marriage. :D
> 
> For those who think they recognize it: yes, that is indeed an homage to another fandom tucked in there. I shamelessly stole an entire chunk of dialogue.
> 
> Lecriteuse, a wonderful source on things academic, answered a question about terminology in a way that provided a wonderful example of snarky academic feuding ("The author shamelessly panders...") which I adapted very slightly to fit as it was so utterly perfect. Thank you!
> 
> "And the heads of your enemies" flowed from my keyboard as I wrote, but feels vaguely familiar to me. If you wrote it already, please let me know and I'll tag your story: it's not my intention to plagiarize good lines. 
> 
> As always, I owe enormous thanks to my partner pericat, who was enormously helpful on this, as a beta reader, destroyer of bad ideas, and source of good plot points. I have no idea what I'd do without her.
> 
> She is responsible for the background plot mechanics of the first section. "What could get Leliana and Cassandra and Trev all to Cumberland at the same time?" I asked. She promptly demolished the logic of the tentative plot I'd come up with, provided another idea, and said, "It would have to be something that touched Leliana's honour." And I ran with it.  
> She reminded me of the other fandom's use of the trope that I borrowed. She suggested the framing device of academic critique (and the burlap sack weapons), and provided the line about self-insertion, and both names for the kitten.
> 
> And she is singlehandedly responsible for most of the plot relating to the nug. 
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.


End file.
